


A Rose By Any Name

by ShannaraIsles



Series: The Rose In The Crown [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, F/M, Female Friendship, Fluff, Happy Ending, Love, Mention of past trauma - mild and in passing, Nobility, Politics, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Pre-Trespasser, Rom-com, Royalty, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-01-30 18:44:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 90,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12659241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannaraIsles/pseuds/ShannaraIsles
Summary: Ten years on the throne, with no heir in sight, King Alistair has finally run out of excuses. Arl Eamon has him cornered in Denerim Palace, with ten extremely eligible ladies of suitable rank and birth from all over Thedas. He has one month to make a decision, or the Landsmeet will make it for him. Ferelden must have an heir.Post-Inquisition, Pre-Trespasser.





	1. Chapter 1

The streets of Denerim were alive with gossip. After all these years, King Alistair was finally going to be married! Arl Eamon had finally convinced him to make a decision. Ladies and princesses were coming from all over Thedas to vie for his hand. Yes, _they_ were going to vie for _his_ hand. Their king was the most eligible bachelor in the world! After a decade trying to recover from the Blight, this was glorious news indeed.

Money changed hands as bets were placed between friends and professional gamblers. Who would the king choose? Would he be guided by the arl? Many hoped not - Eamon had married an Orlesian, and look how that had turned out. Or would the king be guided by the Warden-Commander, the Hero of Ferelden? No one could say for sure - Arlessa Tabris hadn't been seen for a good few years, off chasing some Warden secret miles away from her lands and the country she had saved. Perhaps Teryn Fergus Cousland would have some influence. He was well regarded in most circles, though he, too, was unmarried. He had some cause to be, though, made a widower through the actions of the treacherous Arl Howe during Loghain's downfall. But perhaps the king himself had a few ideas. He certainly wasn't going to lack for choice.

The streets were thronged as the carriages began to arrive, bearing noble ladies from all lands to the great gates of the palace in Denerim. Three from the Free Marches; two from Orlais; two from Ferelden itself; and three others, one from Rivain, one from Antiva, one from Nevarra. King Alistair was going to be spoiled for choice ... but the mood of his people might well make up his mind on certain of the ladies before he ever met them.

The booing filtered in through the window of the king's study, interrupting the discourse of the day. Arl Eamon scowled, marching toward the window to close it sharply.

"Let me guess," Alistair drawled, stretching as he sat back. "The ladies from Orlais have arrived."

Eamon's brows drew together in a stern frown. "They are fine women, Alistair," he said sternly. "You should not dismiss them out of hand simply because of their place of birth."

"Oh, you mean my loyal subjects _won't_ turn on me with rotten tomatoes if I go out on that balcony and announce that their queen is going to be from a country that occupied and oppressed ours within living memory?" Alistair asked with a curiously biting touch to his easy voice. "Say what you like about Loghain - and I have - he was right about that, at least."

"Sweet Maker, I never thought I'd hear you say you agreed with Loathsome Loghain," a voice interrupted from the doorway.

Alistair looked up, his face splitting into a boyish grin that cast off the years of care laid over him by his place as monarch to a trouble land. "Dem!" he declared, pushing his seat back to rise and greet his old friend. "What are you doing here?"

Demelza Tabis, Warden-Commander and Hero of Ferelden, and Arlessa of Amaranthine, grinned back at her human friend, pushing out of her lean by the door. "You didn't really think I was going to miss this, did you?" she asked with a wicked chuckle. "Seeing you performing for all those ladies like a mabari on a leash? Wouldn't miss it for the world."

She clasped his arm with her hand, letting him pull her into a rough embrace as the two of them laughed to see one another again. Arl Eamon watched disapprovingly - though he was grateful to the elven Grey Warden for saving his life, for saving the lives of his wife and son, he had never fully approved of her close friendship with Alistair. She had too much influence over his nephew, in his opinion.

"Warden-Commander," he greeted her with a stiff bow. "May I ask how you got in? The door is guarded."

Dem raised a brow, noting the cool reception with a smirk. "Do you know many people around here who would stop the Hero of Ferelden walking through a door?" she asked, deliberately _not_ using his name or his title. "Besides, I can get in anywhere. I can even surprise Leliana when I concentrate."

Alistair's jaw dropped open. "Oh, I would pay to see that," he chuckled delightedly, and abruptly blushed as his old friend looked him over with a pointed look.

"No, I really don't think you would," Dem teased him, reaching up to chuck his chin as though he were not a full foot taller and several pounds heavier than she was. "Seeing as there's a _lot_ of nakedness and lamp-post licking involved."

"But it's not winter," Alistair managed, a little flustered by the mental image of two good friends entangled with one another. It had been years since he'd overheard that first encounter between them, and the memory of those noises still made his ears burn.

"I still haven't licked a lamp-post in _winter_ ," Dem admitted impishly. "I'm much more a summer kind of girl."

Fighting through his laughing blush, Alistair shook his head. "Are you staying for all this, then?"

"Like I said, wouldn't miss it," she assured him. "Honestly ... did you really think I _wouldn't_ hear about you inviting women from all over the world to compete for your hand in marriage? What are you going to do - stand in the Landsmeet, drop your pants, and marry the last one standing?"

Alistair roared with laughter, leaning back against his desk as the tension bled out of his shoulders. It had been far too long since Dem had been around, with her blunt humor and utter lack of the appropriate. He'd spent years buried in protocol and etiquette, in politics and diplomacy, to the point where he had _almost_ learned not to blurt the first thing that came into his head ... and here came Dem, who didn't care whether her words were offensive or not. She spoke her mind, and everyone else just had to deal with it.

"They'd run for the hills if I did that," he chuckled eventually, shaking his head as Eamon scowled and left the room. "Oops."

Dem watched the door close before turning back to him. "All right, 'fess up, Longshanks," she told him, the old nickname she'd planted on him rolling easily off her tongue. "This is all _his_ idea, isn't it?"

Alistair sighed, the laughter gone from his face as he reached up to rub his forehead. "It's not as though I can leave the throne to Morrigan's boy, is it?" he said wearily. "I heard she disappeared from Skyhold again, anyway." He leaned back on his hands, tipping his head back to examine the iron chandelier above his desk absently. "You know as well as I do the chances of actually _having_ a child are slim to none. But Eamon's right; I can't pretend forever that everything is fine."

"Alistair ..." Dem crossed her arms over her chest, eyeing him with a resigned expression. "You don't _have_ to do this. _You're_ the king, not that dried up old crumpet."

There was a long pause. Alistair didn't need to meet his friend's eyes to know her expression - that defiant mixture of concern and affection and outrage on his behalf that once he had toyed with the possibility of encouraging into love. He was glad he had not tried to do that; for one thing, he didn't think the boy he had been could have weathered her laughing rejection as well as Zevran had done. For another, he didn't feel that way about her. For all their differences, Dem was the closest thing to a sister he had; far closer than Goldanna had ever even tried to be, and always there when he most needed her. Like now, when he was going to need someone to keep reminding him that he was _Alistair_ , and not just a prize with a crown on his head.

"I could have said no," he said quietly, lowering his eyes from the chandelier to meet her gaze with raw honesty. "It's been ten years, Dem. Ten years with nothing but work and worries and war. And no one to talk to. Eamon only ever talks politics and advantages; Teagan is busy enough with Redcliffe and his family; Fergus doesn't come in from Highever all that often. Shianni isn't comfortable enough to relax and treat me like a _person_. At least if I get married, there'll be one person in the palace who will talk to me, and not the crown on my head. And if I’m lucky enough to have a child ..."

"You're lonely," she translated gently, an understanding light warming her eyes. "I can understand that. Just ... don't let anyone talk you into choosing a wife you're not sure about, all right? Most of these women won't see _you_. They're here to be a queen, not to be a wife."

He sighed, rubbing his forehead wearily once again. "It doesn't help that I'm running out of time," he admitted. "At best, I've got twenty years before I hear a true Calling. That doesn't feel long enough to raise a child. If I can even conceive one."

"If I find what I'm looking for in Tevinter, you might not need to worry so much about that," she assured him.

Alistair stared at her. "You found something?"

Dem smiled faintly. "A hint, but it's the best I've got right now," she told him. "With Leliana on the Sunburst Throne, I don't need to worry about her so much, and if you find the right woman in this marriage faire nonsense, I can leave you without too much concern. The Inquisitor has put me in touch with ... I think he called him an altus ... who might be able to help me out when I get there, and he's working with someone called Fiona, who used to be a Grey Warden but isn't any longer, to try and isolate what made that happen." She reached out to pat his hand almost teasingly. "You might live long enough to see your children married, your majesty."

"Do kings walk princes down the aisle?" he asked, a mild grin illuminating his face. "I could change the tradition. Me in the dress and him holding the sword."

She laughed, glad to see his good humor returning. "I am definitely _not_ missing that," she declared cheerfully, moving over to the window to look down as yet another carriage arrived to disgorge its noble occupant. "So how does all this work, then?"

Alistair groaned quietly. "I've got a month to decide which one I like enough to marry," he informed his friend, grimacing when she snorted with laughter.

"One month to lick all those lamp-posts?"

"If only ..." Alistair let out a hopeful sigh. "Something tells me no one wants to see the King of Ferelden choose his queen by licking ten women in turn."

"They _do_ call us dog-lords," Dem pointed out cheerfully.

"Apparently I've got more manners than a mabari," he responded dejectedly. "Speaking of which ... where did you leave Monster?"

Dem's grin widened. "Oh, he's in your kennels," she assured her friend. Monster, the mabari that had imprinted on her at Ostagar whether she wanted him to or not, was her constant companion wherever she went. "Something tells me you're going to have another batch of puppies in a few months."

"It'd be so much easier if I was a dog," he mourned playfully. "I don't suppose the ladies would like it much if I tried to mount them in public."

"Some of them might like it in private," she pointed out.

Alistair winced. "Eamon's got views on that sort of thing," he told her. "I have to dance with them and be a gentleman."

"You _are_ a gentleman," Dem reminded him. "Just because you get tongue-tied around pretty women doesn't mean you're completely incapable of being nice to them."

"What if they're _all_ pretty?" he asked, his expression suddenly aghast. "I can't ask a pretty princess to play shadow puppets with me."

"What about an ugly princess? Could you ask her to play puppets with you?"

"I'm not playing puppets with anyone!" Alistair protested laughingly.

Dem rolled her eyes. "Why not?" she asked him bluntly. "Longshanks, this is your _life_ you're planning out here. Whoever you choose should at least be able to play along with the things you enjoy. So use the month to test them."

The king sighed. "You're not seriously saying I should take a bevy of noble ladies down to the city on market day and make them watch the puppet show?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying." She nodded firmly. "Look, they want to be queen, right? So expose them to Ferelden. If they can't handle the people, they definitely won't be a popular queen."

Alistair's expression slowly creased into a familiar smile. That was entirely doable, and a better suggestion that Eamon's attempts to get him to agree to some of the more ridiculous noble pastimes.

"We could go on a hunt with the mabari," he mused. "Camp out. Spend a day in the library. Spar."

Dem snickered quietly. "Noble ladies camping and sparring?"

"Some of them might," he defended his choice, though he was grinning at the thought. "I wonder how muddy I can get them before they start leaving?"

"That's my boy." She patted him on the shoulder fondly. "Weed out the weak. Make them eat the most Ferelden thing you can think of."

His eyes went wide with longing hope. "Pork pies ... beef stew with dumplings ... _cheese_ ..."

"Proper cheese, not that runny Orlesian snot," Dem added with a grin. "Let Eamon have his feast and his ball and whatever else he has planned to make you uncomfortable, but you've got a whole month to show these ninnies what they're letting themselves in for. I say you should go for it. I bet the castle would be right behind you."

"The court wouldn't," he predicted with a snort of laughter.

"Did I say anything about the court?" She chuckled. "I was talking about the actual _people_ who live and work in this drafty monstrosity."

To her delight, Alistair blushed, glancing away as he rubbed his jaw. "About that ..."

"Was I not supposed to know about you washing the dishes when you make a decision you think won't be popular?" The elven woman laughed. "Shianni knows _everything_."

"Maker's breath, does _everyone_ talk to you about what I'm doing?" he demanded in embarrassment.

"Pretty much." Dem nodded, her eyes crinkling as she grinned back at him. She was willing to lay money on guessing well ahead of time who he was going to choose, probably before he knew himself. She loved her awkward human brother. "Anyway, you can always come and hide behind me if the kissy-kissy gets too much. I'm that terribly uncouth elf-woman who has to be tolerated because she's a hero, don't you know."

"Oh yes, how dare you save all their lives and then insist on showing up when you're invited?" he countered, though his smile was a little half-hearted. He didn't like the way the members of the Bannorn had a tendency to talk down to Demelza, just because she was an elf. It was funny watching her forcing them to look her in the eye as she insulted them to their faces, though.

"I know!" she exclaimed teasingly. "Didn't even have the decency to die saving them from the Blight!" She eyed him with a gentler smile. "You know I don't care what they think of me, right? _You're_ my friend. They're just a bunch of _shemlen_."

"And I have to make nice with nobles from all over Thedas for a month." Alistair's sigh was decidedly put upon. He glanced at his friend worriedly. "What if they don't like me?"

Dem was wise enough not to tease him about that. "Then they're bigger fools than even _I_ think they are," she told him in a firm tone. "You've got a choice of ten. _One_ of them is bound to laugh at your awful jokes."

"Hey!"

The protest was so familiar to both of them, such a throwback to the year they had spent slogging around Ferelden, just them against the world, that they both laughed, king and commander together. Alistair pushed off his lean at the desk, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"It's good to see you, Dem," he told her sincerely. "Don't let me make too many mistakes?"

She offered him a warm smile. "Mistakes maketh the man," she informed her friend, patting his hand. "But apparently I can't show myself at your fancy feast in armor, so I'm off for a bath. Save me a dance, your majesty."

"Only if you promise not to trip me over on purpose." He chuckled, watching her on her way to the door.

"I never make promises I can't keep," was her parting shot, the door closing behind her to seal him in his study with nothing but his own thoughts once again.

It was good to have Demelza back in Denerim, even if she was only here to laugh at his fumbling attempts to court ten different women at the same time. At least there would be someone he could talk to like a person for a month. And if he was very lucky, he'd have a fiancee at the end of that time who might actually see him as more than a crown. _It isn't even a very pretty crown,_ he reflected, turning toward the window. _Ugly heavy thing with knobs on._ Quite why anyone would actually want to wear its mate was beyond him at times.

He sighed, looking out over the rooftops of the palace and Denerim beyond. _Dear old drizzly Ferelden,_ he mused, drumming his fingers against the thick glass pane in front of him. _Nobles and darkspawn and criminals, elves and humans, and no one laughs at decent jokes. Well, no one laughs at **my** jokes. _ Ten years he'd been king of a kingdom struggling to maintain itself, sat on a throne he'd never wanted, forced to deal with people he would much rather never give the time of day to. He'd stepped up because Demelza had asked him to - she'd given him the choice, and he had not wanted to disappoint her. She'd been so _sure_ he could be a good king. But was he?

Alistair wasn't so sure. Those first years had been difficult - so much to learn, to handle. It had been a relief to discover that Fergus Cousland was on his side, that Anora couldn't get the support she needed to engage in a new civil war, that Demelza had Amaranthine under control. Well, sort of under control. They must have rebuilt the city by now. Eamon had always been at his side, and for a long time, his uncle's advice had been sound. He'd guided the young king through political pitfalls and diplomatic traps that could have ended in disaster. But then the appeasement had started to creep in, the encouragement to strengthen ties with Orlais, the badly-disguised implication that marrying Celene would put an end to all his problems. Alistair had stopped trusting Eamon the day his uncle had suggested they offer the Empress use of the Ferelden army to put down her own civil war troubles. He had enough domestic troubles of his own; he wasn't going to invite the enmity of his entire kingdom by doing something as stupid as that. It was bad enough there were two Orlesian ladies in the cattle show he was going to have to navigate for the next month, but at least having them there meant he only really had to pay attention to eight of the women still arriving. Not even Alistair was fool enough to marry an Orlesian and make her queen.

Still, that left him with eight names to consider. Eight faces to put those names to. Eight women of varying ages who were all likely to be stunningly gorgeous and know it. He could feel his stomach tying itself into knots already. His eyes drifted down to the latest carriage in the courtyard, where a red-cloaked figure was stepping down onto the cobblestones. _Which one is that_ , he wondered, squinting through the thick distortion of the glass. He could just make out dark hair curling from beneath the hood, and was that a green dress, or a blue one? Whoever she was, she paused to look around the courtyard for a long moment, only taking the seneschal's hand when she was ready to be guided inside. What he wouldn't give for confidence like that ...

A knock sounded on the door behind him, his voice automatically answering with an injunction for the knocker to come inside.

"Your Majesty?"

Alistair turned away from the window, his brown eyes focusing on the familiar shape of Cormac Sarrin, his personal secretary.

"Your valet has drawn a bath for your majesty," Cormac told him as gently as possible. Those closest to Alistair knew their king was not looking forward to being the meat at this meat market. "Arl Eamon has asked me to remind you that you must be present in the feasting hall before the ladies may be announced."

Alistair sighed. "He must be beside himself with joy," he drawled, moving away from the window. "All right, Cormac, I'll go and make myself beautiful for the ladies. Make sure the Warden-Commander is seated between myself and Bann Shianni Tabris this evening - if I must go through this, I will at least have friends on hand."

"As you wish, your majesty." Cormac bowed, a faint smile playing at his lips as he slipped away again, no doubt to tell Eamon where he could shove his seating plan. Alistair almost wished he could watch that.

But no, duty was calling. Time to go out and be beautiful for the beautiful people. And he didn't mind it so very much, really. By the end of the month, he would at least have someone else about to live in his gilded cage with him. So why did it feel like he was being dressed up like a royal rabbit, being sent out to rut for his country?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the princess of Antiva arrives in Denerim, and learns exactly why she's there.

"If you would just step this way, your highness ..."

Princess Felicita Amelia Braulia Salome of Antiva ignored the seneschal trying to usher her out of the courtyard, taking a moment to lower her hood and look around the gray walls of the royal palace of Denerim.

It was not what she had been told to expect; indeed, it far surpassed her father's dubious descriptions. He had painted Ferelden as a miserable, cold sort of place, where there was little joy to be found and less color. As the eighth daughter of his line - and four more still to be found a place for, if they didn’t kill each other vying for the succession - he could not afford to be picky, and the plutocracy of the merchants had agreed that placing an Antivan princess on the throne of Ferelden might do very nicely, for all its shortcomings. They, too, had warned her that the southern country was a drab place, lacking in the refinements she was accustomed to; some had even gone so far as to suggest Ferelden was lacking in basic good manners.

Yet this description did not mesh with the country as she had seen it thus far. Amaranthine had certainly been a sallow sort of place, but justifiably so - they were still rebuilding after the catastrophic darkspawn attack after the end of the Blight. Even so, the people there had been smiling about their work, eager to take a look at the nobles who disembarked. Word had reached them well in advance that these ladies of Antiva, Nevarra, and the Free Marches were prospective queens, and the welcome they had given was warm, indeed. As for a land that lacked color, well ... Felicita had seen green fields beneath snow, blue skies, bright clothing. She had seen dried flowers in red and white and deep purple, familiar and unfamiliar to her Antivan eyes, and in some places, fresh growing by the side of the road, even here at the waning end of winter. Far from misery, she had witnessed cheerful good nature at the inns and noble homes opened for herself and her party to stay at on their journey from the port city. These people were fiercely proud of their land and heritage, possessed of a deep love for their king, whose history as both a bastard and a hero were points they elucidated on with equal pleasure. Indeed, as soon they identified that she was from Antiva, not Orlais, the people she had met had gone out of their way to sell their King Alistair's finer points to her.

Admittedly, she had not known until her ship had docked at Amaranthine that this was to be a competition of sorts. It had been a surprise to note that her traveling companions to Denerim were Ladies Callista Damaris of Nevarra, Ceridwyn Ardvale of Kirkwall, Leona Charing of Starkhaven, and Amandine Orrick of Tantervale, all of whom had also been invited by Arl Eamon Guerrin to attend upon King Alistair of Ferelden for a full month in the hope of being asked to become his queen. Felicita could foresee all sorts of problems in the days ahead, especially given the gossip that had been filtering through to them. They five were not the only ladies invited to Denerim for this bride-finding event, it seemed; they were simply the five who necessity dictated should arrive at the same port at the same time. There were, apparently, five others to contend with, also.

Of the ladies she traveled with, however, Felicita saw only two as potential problems - Callista was of the numerous Pentaghast clan, but her lack of that name made her all the more ambitious to snag a crown of her own if she possibly could; and Amandine was a picture perfect proposition for the king ahead of them, hiding her own ambitions behind sweet manners and an easy wit. Ceridwyn clearly already had her cap set toward the Teryn of Highever, who had met them in the port city to escort the group to Denerim, and despite himself, he was clearly flattered to be the beneficiary of the vivacious redhead's attentions. As for Leona, well ... that girl would be happier in a Chantry, anyone could see that. She said and did all the right things, but her fervor for Andraste's teachings were a little too much for anyone who wasn't expecting the zeal to erupt from such a pretty face. Felicita herself was not entirely sure she wanted to be a part of this rather demeaning display of women squabbling over an eligible man, however high his rank, but her father had spoken well of King Alistair. She was prepared to wait, and use her own judgment as to how closely she would fight this battle.

But here she was, in this gray country that was looking forward to the first flush of spring, and despite everything she had been told, she found she rather liked it. It was wholly different to Antiva City, but no lesser for that difference. Her soft amberite eyes scanned the thick glass windows above her, hesitating for a moment on the sight of someone male looking down at her.

"Your highness?"

Blinking out of her contemplation of that indecipherable face high above, Felicita turned her attention back to the seneschal, finally accepting his invitation to enter the palace as she laid her hand over his own.

"Thank you, my lord."

She smiled warmly as he escorted her into a drafty vestibule hung with heraldic tapestries depicting the dual mabari of both Ferelden itself and the royal house, crimson against gold. The floor was gray stone but clean, a sturdy reed mat laid out for visitors to scrape the mud from their boots before advancing further into the castle itself. The seneschal lead her into the next room, a wide antechamber dominated by a large double door, and two flights of steps leading upward on either side of it. The space was bustling with servants and nobles, deep in preparation for the feast that evening; a feast that was as much to welcome the arrival of the various ladies as it was to mark Wintersend. Again, the walls were hung with bright tapestries, this time an array of heraldic devices, most notably those of Highever and the Couslands, and of Amaranthine and Denerim and, perhaps surprisingly, the Grey Wardens. Though the gray stone of the walls lent a chill to the air, the effect was warmed by the thick rugs that covered the floor and the steps leading upward. Felicita felt no hesitation in removing her gloves as the seneschal left her side, her eyes turning to the rotund gentleman in bright purple hose and deep green doublet who approached her.

"Ah, Don Carmello?" she asked, recognising him from her father's description. _White beard, black eyebrows, deceptively friendly smile._ That was definitely him.

The Antivan ambassador bowed low, his gaze sparkling cheerfully as he let forth his greeting in the familiar rolling syllables of the language they both shared, kissing her hand more as though she were a favored grandchild than a princess of his country.

"In Common, if you please, ambassador," Felicita interrupted him gently. "We should not be so rude as to conceal our thoughts from the ears of those who are here to watch over us. We are guests, not enemies."

The ambassador frowned, glancing at the bustle of humans and elves all around them. "Ah, your highness," he said in a wary tone, careful to choose his words now he was under orders to speak in a language everyone here understood. "Your father, the king, was most concerned that you should have some means to communicate without fear of being overheard."

"And why is that?" Felicita asked in an innocent tone. "I have no secrets. My father's inability to tell me that my invitation was to take part in a competition, however, would suggest that he has a few secrets of his own."

"Nonetheless, _princesa_ , my orders ..."

Felicita turned to face him fully, uncaring that others could hear plainly. "Ambassador, if you insist upon speaking in Antivan, you must become accustomed to hearing me state in Common every word you say," she informed him. "We are guests in this land, not spies, and not enemies. I will not be so rude to my hosts, nor will I allow you to do the same."

Carmello stuttered for a moment, but Felicita was used to the Antivan way. Women were theoretically to be seen and not heard, pieces of mobile beauty to be pampered and sweetened and considered uneducated. The reality was that many Antivan women were _highly_ educated, and often doing the work of their entire household. But still the pretty ideal persisted, especially in those men who had been away from home for a while. She held his gaze steadily, sweetening her expression with a small smile. And he gave in, sighing and muttering in Antivan about spoiled princesses.

Felicita laughed politely as he gestured for her to accompany him up the left-hand flight of stairs. "Ambassador, _I_ still understand Antivan," she reminded him in amusement. "I did not suddenly become Ferelden by virtue of extending a simple courtesy to these people."

"Ah, forgive me, your highness." Carmello cleared his throat, apparently changing his preferred approach. He'd been away from Antiva too long. "You are to be quartered among the other ladies. This palace is laid out unusually - there is an entire floor dedicated to the comfort of guests, above the royal quarters."

"I see." She nodded as they walked. "What can you tell me of this arrangement, ambassador? I know only what little my father told me, and scant detail from the other ladies I found myself traveling with."

"Your highness, this is an unusual occasion," Carmello explained as they mounted the stairs, steering the way to the next flight upward that would take them to the guest quarters. "The nobility of Ferelden have lost patience with their King. As a Grey Warden, there is a risk that he will never produce a child at all, yet the longer he waits to wed, the greater that risk becomes. The Landsmeet - the gathering of banns and arls - have set his wedding date already. King Alistair will wed on Summerday."

"If they have set his date, why have they not also chosen his bride?" Felicita asked, more curious than offended. It seemed reasonable enough to put this kind of pressure on a King who had already had ten years to secure his line and had done nothing to prevent civil war upon his death.

"King Alistair is a very popular man among the common people," the ambassador explained to her. "He is one of their heroes, one of the Grey Wardens who ended the Blight; a man who bears the stigma of illegitimacy, and yet became their king. He has a bad habit of looking them in the eye when he speaks to them, as well. If it were to become known that he was being forced into a marriage, the people would rise to prevent it, most are certain. As it is, he has agreed to this arrangement - that he _will_ choose, by the first day of Drakonis, which lady of birth he will wed."

"And if he does not choose?" the princess asked, glancing at the man beside her sharply.

Carmello winced. "The Landsmeet will choose for him," he sighed. It was a good arrangement, but he'd met the king on more than one occasion. It wasn't a _fair_ arrangement for that man. "With a civil war only ten years in the past, the issue of succession is a hotly debated point."

"I see." Felicita nodded thoughtfully as they came to a halt. "Then Mama's cryptic comments about seeing me soon were not her attempt to cheer me into embarking upon the journey with a light heart."

The ambassador had the decency to look discomforted. "Alas, no, your highness," he admitted. "The invitations for the wedding have already been sent. The, ah, the name of the _bride_ will, of course, be announced on the first day of Drakonis."

Felicita felt her usually warm expression settle into something that was decidedly put out. This was not the situation she had been allowed to believe she was walking into. A bride-finding competition, where the groom was not entirely willing, and the wedding date already set ... this was a small nightmare in the making.

"This ... contest," she said carefully. "Would I be right in thinking it is not the king's idea?"

" _Sí, princesa_ ," he agreed, seemingly more comfortable to admit to this than to the rest of it. "Arl Eamon Guerrin is the king's chief advisor. He has been pressing for a marriage for quite some years now, and it is known that he favors Orlais."

Felicita snorted, hastily turning the unladylike sound into a delicate cough. "Even _I_ know, Don Carmello, that Ferelden will never stomach an Orlesian queen," she pointed out, surprised and a little pleased to note the smile that blossomed suddenly on the face of the elven servant stepping past them as she spoke. "Come, show me where I am to be quartered, and tell me about this ridiculous situation in greater detail."

"Of course, your highness."

The ambassador lead her from the staircase through an imposing door, into a wide corridor from which other doors lead. The rug runner on the floor was a deep shade of crimson, bordered in gold thread that glittered in the light of the torches illuminating the dark space. Some kind of incense was burning to fragrance the passageway, no doubt as a fop to those of the ladies who objected to the smell of honest sweat and the vague hint of musky mabari that clung to everything in this city. Felicita could hear voices behind some of those doors, yet there was a louder collection of feminine voices where the passageway opened far ahead. She glanced curiously at the ambassador.

"A common area, your highness," he explained, drawing to a halt beside a door that had been hung with the Antivan royal crest, no doubt to make it easier for her to find her resting place while she was here. "I believe it was thought that the princesses and ladies of rank would like a place where they might engage in traditionally feminine pastimes in relative privacy, and to build social ties with one another."

Felicita raised her brow, biting down on her smile as she passed through the door beside him. "A man made that decision, yes?" she asked, raising her hands to undo the clasp of her cloak.

Carmello chuckled lightly, knowing exactly what she was thinking. "Indeed. Arl Eamon does not appear to understand people so very much."

With the door closed behind him, Felicita finally laughed at the prospect of being expected to make nice with nine other women for an entire month, while all of them were vying for the matrimonial advantage of being Queen of Ferelden. It was utterly ridiculous. This arl was a fool if he thought there would be no unpleasantness simply because they were all women of rank. Noblewomen could be vicious when cornered. It would actually be easier to handle if they could draw knives and fight it out like men, but sadly the noble ranks didn't like to encourage their ladies to learn useful skills. Well, most countries' noble ranks did not. She could name at least two other women in this little contest who could likely draw a blade with confidence.

Still, perhaps the arl had thought that the noble ladies invited would prefer not to go to bed at ridiculous hours if they were not at the king's beck and call. The room Carmello had brought her to was spacious, certainly, but it was definitely a bedchamber. A wide hearth dominated one wall, the fire crackling in the grate more than welcome in the chill of the winter. The warm cast of firelight complimented the weaker spill of winter sunlight through the thick glass that filled the window between leads, illuminating the arm chairs that had been placed about the hearth. The bed, of course, dominated the room. Not a four-posted monstrosity, nor a dark-wooded maw; it was carved of pleasant oak, sturdy and simple, laid with soft linens and thick blankets, a bright quilt turned back to reveal the Theirin crest on the uppermost blanket. Felicita bit her lip as she fought to hide her smile, imagining the reaction of certain of her traveling companions at the thought of sleeping underneath the family crest of the man they hoped to marry. _Scandalous._

"Oh ... please be seated, ambassador," she said belatedly, gesturing toward the armchairs by the fire as she removed her cloak, laying it over the folded quilt at the end of the bed. Her own chest had already been brought in, and judging by the sounds coming from beyond the door set the wall opposite the hearth, a maid was busily hanging her gowns and preparing to order a bath.

Carmello waited politely until she took a seat herself before easing himself down into one of the armchairs comfortably, letting out a low sigh of relief. "I, myself, am not quartered in the palace proper," he told her, "but should you need me at any hour, do not hesitate to send a message. My purpose here is to ease your way, your highness."

Settling her skirts comfortably, Felicita leaned back in her chair. "Tell me what I am to expect from these weeks ahead of me, ambassador," she answered, her momentary levity set aside in favor of thoughtful discussion. "How, exactly, the king is expected to woo ten women in the course of a single month."

Carmello sighed, shaking his head. He, too, thought it was an ambitious plan of the arl's, but it was clear that Arl Eamon believed he could sway his king toward a wife perhaps already chosen.

"In truth, your highness, I am uncertain quite how he is to make such a choice," he admitted. "The full detail of the month has not yet been decided. I believe the king has insisted upon being allowed to make his own decisions for some few days as to the entertainments and so on, but has yet to confirm those decisions."

That was encouraging, at least. It appeared that King Alistair was not the weak king some suspected he was, though Felicita had not truly believed him weak to begin with. He had killed an archdemon before taking the crown; he had resisted marriage for a full decade, and drawn his people slowly out of the depression left over them by the Blight. Even the eruption of the mage-templar conflict within his borders had not overwhelmed him. She tapped her fingertip against her lower lip as Carmello went on.

"There is, of course, the Wintersend feast this evening," the ambassador told her. "I am told there will be dancing, though it will undoubtedly depend upon the arl's whim. There are days set aside throughout the month for the king to spend with each lady - the names were drawn by lot, to prevent rank or partiality on the part of the arl from weighting the dice, so to speak."

"That does make sense," the princess mused, glancing up as an elven servant-girl slipped from the chamber briefly, took one look at them sat together, and abruptly skipped straight back into what she assumed was the dressing chamber. She smiled faintly, making a mental note to reassure the girl that she had not been intruding. "In that case, I should imagine I will have at least a week, if not longer, to observe the king and come to my own conclusions?"

"Certainly, your highness," Carmello assured her warmly. "The day set aside for your accompanying the king is the thirteenth. Of course, before then, you will have ample opportunity to at least form your own opinion of him. A theater troupe has been invited to perform at the palace; there is an evening planned to celebrate the different cultures of the ladies attending the ..." He groped for the right word.

"Meat market," Felicita provided in a wry tone. She was definitely not impressed with the fact that she had been sent to partake in a competition for the hand of a man who apparently didn't want to get married in the first place.

"I would not say that, _princesa_ ," Carmello said, attempting to placate her.

"Ambassador, these ladies are here seeking a crown," she pointed out to him in a weary tone. "Were it only the crown as the prize, perhaps I would choose to engage in such sport. But the crown is worn by a man who has shown no interest in marrying for ten years, and does so now only because his noble ranks will rebel against him otherwise. This is a troubled land, and I feel sure it has a troubled king. What they want is a queen; what he needs is a wife. And I will not engage in deceptions simply to be named queen. I will do my duty, I will play my role, but I will not actively seek to become Queen of Ferelden unless I see more in the _man_ than his troubles and his crown."

Don Carmello stared at her for a long moment, his mouth working silently as he made a valiant effort to draw this display of spirit together with the picture King Fulgeno had painted of an obedient daughter who showed no inclination to fight for her right to rule and would be better suited to a life away from the political machinations of Antiva.

"Then, your highness, I will hope that the man behind the crown earns your interest and your respect," he said finally. "King Alistair is a good man. A little impulsive, perhaps; certainly not as well bred as many of his court, but his manners do not suffer for that. He is a little overwhelmed by his duties, I would venture to say, yet he expresses himself well, and his people are very fond of him. Still, the life of a lone monarch is an isolated one. If I may be so bold ... he would be lucky to have you as his wife. And Ferelden would be blessed to have you for their queen."

Felicita smiled her public smile, her fingertip pressing into her lower lip as she eyed the ambassador. "I think you are attempting to both humor and encourage me, Don Carmello," she accused in a gentle tone, "but I thank you for it. It promises to be a long month."

"And soon to begin," Carmello agreed, rising to his feet to bow to her. "I will leave you to your preparations, your highness. Please, allow me to welcome you to Ferelden once again."

"Thank you, ambassador. I will see you this evening."

_"Princesa."_

The ambassador bowed once again, letting himself out through the door. Felicita sighed at the sound of a particularly strident voice in the corridor outside, broad Orlesian tones expressing displeasure at a volume that was quickly shut out as the door drew closed in his wake. A full month living in close proximity with nine other women, all of whom were eager for a crown. She was going to have to check her belongings daily.

"Just like home," she mused, rolling her eyes as she rose to her feet, moving to look out through the window at the gray winter sky. There was the possibility, of course, that no one here was going to be actively trying to _kill_ her, but even so ... Hands folded at her waist, she turned her head toward the dressing chamber. "You may come out now."

A pinched face came into view, worry dominant in the slanted eyes that looked over at her as the elven servant bobbed several curtsies in the doorway between the bedchamber and dressing room.

"Begging your pardon, my lad- ... your highness, I mean," she apologized. "I meant no offense."

Felicita smiled at the girl. "And you gave none," she assured her. "Are you to be my assistant while I am here?"

The elf nodded, a half smile of her own flickering proudly on her face. "Aye, mil- ma'am. Marta said to make sure you know that if you don't want an elf, she can send someone else in my place."

"Nonsense," the princess said easily. After all, though elves were still second-class citizens in Antiva, they seemed to hold higher respect simply for existing there than they did in other lands. Her smile gentled as she spoke again. "What is your name?"

"Andra, your highness." Another curtsy, this time with her hands thrust firmly at her back. Clearly Marta - who must be in charge of the ladies-maids - was formidable enough to have drilled them ruthlessly.

"Well then, Andra, it is a pleasure to meet you." Felicita felt almost embarrassed by the grateful smile on the girl's face as she bobbed yet another curtsy. What was life like for elves here if a simple polite greeting could be taken with such warmth? "It has been a very long journey. Would it be possible to take a bath before I must dress to impress the king and his guests, do you suppose?"

Andra nodded quickly. "Oh, yes, mi- your highness," she said, stumbling over the high rank of the lady she had been assigned to. "I'll order the water in, and fetch everything you'll need. Will you be wanting to wash your hair?"

"Do you think we can dry it in time?" Felicita heard herself ask, trying not to show her amusement at the eagerness the girl showed her.

"Oh, certainly, your highness," Andra insisted, evidently confident of her skills, even if this Marta was not. "We'll use hot combs and warm towels. You'll be dry in no time, I promise you."

"Then I should very much like to wash my hair," Felicita told her, unable to keep the relief from her voice. A chance to wash all the filth of travel from every part of herself was the best means she could think of for preparing herself for what was coming. 

"Very good, your highness."

As Andra curtsied yet again and slipped from the room to organize a bath for the princess of Antiva, Felicita turned back to the window with another low sigh, wincing at the shriek from the chamber opposite her own as the inhabitant made some discovery not to her liking. Yes, the month ahead promised to be long, indeed. She felt a pang of sympathy for King Alistair, being set up as little more than a crown and a prize for the most suitable lady invited to this rather humiliating display. Still, she was here, and for her father's sake she would behave as a princess should. For her own sake, however, she would bide her time and come to her own decision. Andraste's blood, there must be _something_ in this king, this _man_ , that would welcome a companion for his years. Perhaps she would find an appropriate wife for him among these other ladies; coach _her_ into a position of success.

Perhaps this month of being on display would not be _so_ bad, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which King Alistair meets his ten prospective brides, and very nearly manages not to put his foot in his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this is a monster of a chapter whose length is very unlikely to be repeated again! And for your convenience, [here are the face claims](https://shannaraisles.tumblr.com/post/167174784805/face-claims-for-yet-another-idea-that-is-brewing) for the ladies you are about to meet. ;)

* * *

 

 

The feasting hall in Denerim Palace was loud, hot, and far too crowded for Alistair's peace of mind. He didn't like these overly done-up occasions at the best of times. Every so often in the course of a year, Eamon insisted on throwing a few feasts that were just an occasion for every arl and bann to invade the palace and watch the king like a hawk for any sign that he might possibly be about to suddenly turn Blighted and start the next civil war. Every time, Alistair found himself stuck in a room filled with people who couldn't bear the sight of him on the throne mingling with people who praised him to the heavens with no actual clue of what it was he did every single day.

Of course, there were a few people here who _didn't_ want to see him fail. Fergus Cousland, for one; despite the tragic circumstances, both Alistair and Fergus had risen to their respective seats at the same time, in the same chaos, and both were within a few years of one another in age. They had somehow managed to become good friends, despite the miles separating Highever from Denerim. And Fergus was not the only ally Alistair could call on if necessary. In this room, he could count six others who had always supported him, right from the start - Arl Bryland, Bann Teagan, Bann Sighard, Bann Alfstanna, Bann Gallagher Wulf, and of course, Bann Shianni Tabris. She might need as much support as he did, being an elf among humans, but he was rather proud to be able to call the acerbic elven leader of Denerim his friend. Other banns and arls were, at best, fair-weather friends - Ceorlic sprang to mind - acting mostly in their own interest, or the interest of whomever had paid them off. Still, he had an ace up his sleeve this month that would see some of them hand back whatever Eamon had paid them to promote the Orlesians as soon as she made herself known.

Alistair grinned into his cup at that thought, almost belligerently looking forward to the reaction when Dem made her entrance. The Bannorn seemed to have forgotten that she was still very much in existence, thanks to her long absence. This should be fun.

"Don't smirk, Alistair, it does nothing for the appearance of nobility you wish to exude."

The grin dropped from the king's face at the sound of his uncle's voice. He lowered his cup, turning to greet Arl Eamon and Lady Isolde, feeling a prickle on the back of his neck at the false smile bestowed on him by a woman who had hated him since he was a child.

"Uncle, Lady Isolde," he said, inclining his head to them both. "I was under the impression this was supposed to be a party?"

Eamon sighed, shaking his head. "You must make a good impression this evening, Alistair," he said sternly. "If you do not, all the ladies may choose to leave in the morning, and then where will you be?"

"Engaged to the most suitable choice, of course," Isolde answered in her cold way. "Only a fool cannot see that Marguerite De Montefort would be a fine addition to this court."

"Sadly, Lady Isolde, I was raised among dogs," Alistair reminded her, inwardly rather pleased to see her wince. Yes, it was petty, but he didn't have much opportunity for getting his licks in before she did generally. "A little foolishness is to be expected, I understand."

"Alistair." Eamon's voice was low; a warning not to push his luck.

"Oh, don't worry, uncle," he assured the arl, tilting his cup toward the man. "I do solemnly promise not to lick any of them unless they ask me to."

It was worth playing the idiot just to see the look of neutered outrage on Isolde's face, but something better was coming. The herald slammed his staff hard against the flagstones, calling for the attention of the gathered nobles to announce the next guest, and Alistair was delighted to have a front row seat, as it were, to the visible reaction of his uncle and aunt as the name was absorbed.

"Arlessa of Amaranthine, Warden-Commander of the Grey, Demelza Tabris, Hero of Ferelden!"

The murmur of surprise, dismay, and interest made Alistair's grin reappear as he watched the color drain from Isolde's face. The arlessa had never been very good at schooling her expression; given the way she glanced at her husband, it was a very good bet that Eamon hadn't told her Dem was in town. Eamon himself had drawn his lips into a thin line, disapproval radiating from every orifice. Or was it consternation? Dem being in town was one thing; Dem being present for the bride-finding events was quite something else. Infinitely pleased by the fact that his friend's mere presence was enough to discomfort his uncle, Alistair turned his head to take a look at her himself, choking back a low laugh. Well, she had _said_ she wouldn't show up in armor.

Dem had presented herself in a simple shirt and trousers, her unruly hair bound up to deliberately display her pointed ears. She was armed, too, secure in the knowledge that no one was going to ask the Hero of Ferelden to surrender her weapons even in the presence of the king. Two daggers on her back, two at her hips, and Alistair was fairly sure she probably had a pair tucked into her boots as well. She ambled easily among the milling nobles, offering insincere smiles to those who deigned to acknowledge her. For those she considered worth her time, however - Teagan, Fergus, Alfstanna, Wulf - her smiles were genuine, and she paused to greet them on her way past, finally fetching up in front of Alistair with a lazy grin.

"Did I miss anything important?" she asked without ceremony.

Alistair chuckled. "Dem, you _are_ something important," he pointed out, clasping her arm cheerfully. "Shianni's around here somewhere."

"Oh, I know," she assured him. "She's good at not being obvious." There was a pause, just long enough to be insulting, and she turned her gaze onto the arl and arlessa beside him. "Eamon, Isolde."

"Warden-Commander," Eamon responded in a tight voice, offering the bare minimum of a polite bow as Isolde bobbed the shallowest curtsy she could get away with.

"How is Connor these days?" Dem asked them, going straight for the kill. She hadn't liked Isolde right from the start, and Eamon had done nothing to endear himself to her in the aftermath of the Blight. "I heard he returned to Redcliffe when the mages were given sanctuary there."

Isolde gasped, her hand rising to her throat, but Eamon simply clenched his jaw before answering. "I understand he is doing well," he said without emotion. "I believe he passed into full mage-hood not long ago, under the auspices of the new College."

"Wonderful." Dem smiled brightly. "It's _so_ good to know that he's been getting the care and guidance he needs, isn't it?"

"I ... Yes, my lady," Isolde answered weakly. "Eamon, I believe Bann Golde wished to speak with us?"

"Ah, yes." Eamon inclined his head to both king and commander. "Do excuse us."

"A moment, my lord." Dem held out a hand to prevent their leaving. "I know I am _just_ an elf, but I do believe it is courtesy to ask your king's permission to leave his presence. Or do you not extend courtesy to your king? _Arl Eamon?_ "

Alistair felt himself gulp, his eyes flickering to Eamon and Isolde as banked fury crossed his uncle's eyes for a brief moment. He'd never enforced those rules on his uncle, but he had to admit Demelza might have a point. Eamon treated him like a child most of the time. A reminder that Alistair was actually his _king_ was probably long overdue. The arl stiffened, offended no doubt at being jerked up short by an elf, just as he was offended to have been saved by an elf and had to rely on the same elf to save his country shortly afterward. He turned to Alistair, his glare only just held in check.

"May we have your permission to withdraw, your majesty?"

Alistair gaped, startled out of that astonished stare by the sensation of one small booted foot pressing hard onto his toes. "Uh ... yes, of course, Arl Eamon. Arlessa Isolde."

"Thank you, your majesty." Each word seemed to take huge effort for the arl to say, but he managed it, bowing properly this time before drawing his wife away and into the crowd.

"Maker's breath, Dem," Alistair breathed to the tune of his friend's laughter. "Are you _trying_ to get me killed?"

"Oh, relax," she chuckled, patting his arm. "He acts more like a king than you do. Someone should bring him down a peg or two."

"I'm the one who has to live with him," Alistair pointed out mildly, though he could feel himself beginning to smile at her unrelenting cheer.

"So kick him out of the palace," was her simple solution. "He's got his own house in the capital, make him live there."

"That's ... he's been very helpful," he attempted to reason, but in his heart, he knew she was right. He sighed. "Where have you been, anyway?"

Demelza grinned impishly at him, snagging a cup from the table behind her. "I've been admiring the view in the vestibule," she informed him. "There are a _lot_ of pretty faces out there. And some very interesting shapes, too. If I wasn't a taken woman, you might have some competition."

He blushed, laughing quietly at her outrageous commentary on the whole thing. Then his smile faded as he realized what it was she had actually said. The princesses and ladies were waiting in the vestibule to be announced. He _really_ couldn't get out of this now. As if answering that sense of dread suddenly knotting in his stomach, Cormac appeared at his elbow.

"The ladies are ready to enter, your majesty," his secretary said quietly. "If you would take your place?"

Alistair sighed, nodding to the man. He eyed Dem worriedly. "Don't leave me alone," he muttered in a hopeful tone as she grinned at him.

"As your majesty commands," she answered, turning to escort him to the throne on the dais, opposite the wide entrance doors. "I wouldn't miss this for the world."

His friend's enjoyment of this farce was just a little inappropriate, he thought as they moved toward the throne, reaching up to scratch underneath the heavy press of the crown on his head. _I really should get someone to make a lighter version of this._ He had that thought every time he had to wear the thing, and yet had never quite got around to having it done. Eamon had insisted on the crown tonight. In all honesty, Alistair despised wearing the thing, but he'd given up fighting that fight. He always lost it, no matter how hard he tried. Maybe the headache would be worth it this time, he reflected, reluctantly seating himself on the throne that still didn't feel as though it belonged to him. Maybe having a headache would keep him from saying anything awful to the ladies about to be presented to him.

He glanced to the herald at the far doors with brief nod, steeling himself for what was to come, aware that Dem had leaned herself comfortably against the tall side of the throne. Her presence, it seemed, was enough to keep Eamon from moving to take up position on the other side. Alistair swallowed a faint smile. He appreciated that his uncle was doing his best, but it was good to have Dem around. She reminded everyone that they wouldn't be here without the two of them.

The heavy staff of office banged loudly against the flagstones, drawing the chatter to a close as the herald began his announcement. "Your majesty ... Warden-Commander ... lords and ladies of Ferelden ... I present His Majesty's guests!"

The great doors swept open. Alistair felt his stomach drop with icy uncertainty at what they revealed.

"Lady Marguerite Ocativie De Montefort, daughter of the late Duke Prosper De Montefort, lady-companion to the Empress of Orlais!"

The woman - he assumed it was a woman - walking toward them was a veritable confection of pale blue ruffles and bows, ridiculously wide hips, gloved hands, and a mask that covered the entire face, connected to a strange squared-off hat and veil that hid her hair. The expression painted on the mask was supposed to be serene, but Alistair's immediate impression was of some kind of monster eyeing him up for dinner.

"Andraste's mercy ..." he muttered under his breath, swallowing as Marguerite reached the bottom of the steps to the throne and offered him a florid curtsy. He could feel Dem grinning behind him as he rose to greet the woman. "Lady Marguerite."

" _Majesté_ ," she answered, her breathy voice sounding hollow and echoing behind the mask. "So kind of you to invite me to partake."

It took a moment for him to decipher her accent. Was she actually trying to sound _more_ Orlesian? Shaking himself, Alistair offered her a hand to help her rise, trying not to shudder at the sharp tips on her glove as she touched him. _Maker's breath, the woman has claws._

"I ... trust your journey was ... pleasant?" he heard himself ask, groping for something safe and small-talky to say. He only had a few minutes before the next one was announced; just a few minutes to get an impression of each one, and this one was already being mentally crossed off his internal list. One, she was Orlesian; two, she was _aggressively_ Orlesian.

"Oh, it was terrible, _majesté_ ," she informed him, blue eyes behind the mask not even focused on his face, but on the crown atop his head. "Your guardsmen were in such a hurry, I have barely had time to catch my breath."

"I am ... sorry to hear that, my lady," Alistair said carefully, steering her toward Eamon and Isolde. He happened to know for a fact that Maguerite De Montefort had refused to leave Orlais until the last possible moment, and the guards sent to escort her had hated every second of it. _Let Isolde handle the complaining. She'll enjoy it._ "It is to be hoped you will find something to love in Ferelden."

A coy, affected laugh erupted from behind the mask. "I think I already have, _majesté_."

His smile was more of a grimace, aware that the majority of nobles in the room deeply disapproved of her mere presence in Ferelden. A clumsy attempt to flirt with him when he couldn't even see her face was not going to win her the crown she couldn't seem to take her eyes off.

"That is, uh ... good to know, my lady." He couldn't hide the relief on his face as Eamon bowed to him, though. "Lady Marguerite, may I present you to Arl Eamon Guerrin, and his wife, Arlessa Isolde? They have kindly offered to chaperone you for this evening."

"Lady De Montefort, it is such a pleasure to see you again," Isolde said smoothly as Alistair transferred that claw-like grip from his hand to Eamon's. "Your late father was such a good friend of my own dear father's."

"Ah, Lady Isolde, how do you stand this country?" Marguerite answered as the king excused himself. "It is so dull!"

Dem was still grinning as Alistair sat back on his throne. "One down, nine to go," she murmured impishly, handing him a cup.

He took a deep drink. "Maker, I hope the others at least have faces."

"Trust me, they're all very pretty," Dem assured him.

He was going to have to take her at her word on that one; she _had_ spent the last half hour or more enjoying the view in the vestibule, rather than mingling with the nobles he'd been having to endure. Bracing himself again, he caught the herald's eye.

"Lady Amandine Liane Orrick of Tantervale!"

After the horror of Maguerite, almost anything would have been an improvement. Alistair had not been expecting the improvement to be quite so ... _Sweet Maker, she's lovely._

Amandine of Tantervale was a lithe young lady with winsome eyes so dark they were almost black, possessed of beautifully warm golden-brown skin that seemed to glow in the light from the chandeliers high above. Her deep chestnut hair was bound in an uncomplicated braid that fell over her shoulder; her gown was in satin red, the Free Marches style of a fitted short bodice and generous skirt, long dappled sleeves. Her curtsy was simple, without performance, and her smile as he raised her to her feet took his breath away.

"Lady Amandine," he said, forcing himself not to stutter over her name. "Welcome to Denerim."

"It is a great honor to be here, your majesty," she told him, and even her voice was warm, the friendly cadence more than enough to make something deep in his stomach flip over with interest. "And in such unusual circumstances, too."

Alistair felt himself laugh at the playful way she said that, changing his mind about who he had intended to deliver her to. She didn't deserve to be stuck with Ceorlic all evening. "Yes, well ..." He cleared his throat awkwardly as he drew her toward the gathering of nobles to the left of the throne. "I would hope it isn't too awkward for you."

"Not at all, your majesty," Amandine assured him. "I find the experience far more entertaining than watching cattle drovers losing control of their herds in the middle of my city."

That was a mental image too good not to grin at. "Perhaps I should visit Tantervale sometime," he suggested in amusement. "Purely for comparison's sake."

"I am sure you would be very welcome, your majesty."

Smiling, rather charmed by her easy manner and beauty, Alistair paused, inclining his head to her before catching the eye of Arl Bryland. "My lady, Arl Bryland will be your escort for the evening," he told Amandine, pleasantly surprised to find that her smile did not cool when bestowed upon the arl. _Perhaps she isn't faking it._ "My lord, I am placing Lady Amandine into your custody for the evening."

"A pleasure, your majesty," Brylan replied, bowing as he took Amandine's hand into the crook of his arm. "How do you find Ferelden, my lady?"

"A little chilly, my lord, but it _is_ winter," Amandine answered him as Alistair stepped away.

He caught Dem's eye as he mounted the steps to the throne. The elven Warden was grinning again, toasting him with her cup even as she handed him his own.

"Better?" she asked teasingly.

"Better," he agreed, chuckling as he sat down again. "If I had to choose right now, I know which one I would propose to."

"Just as well you don't have to choose right now, then, or you might start a cat fight out there," Dem snickered, taking the cup from him again as he nodded for the third time to the herald.

"Lady Callista Maritza Thekla Andrasteia Grizelda Damaris of Nevarra!"

Who turned out to be a decidedly buxom woman not much younger than Alistair was, with bold caramel eyes and a wicked little smile that looked him up and down and declared to the entire room that she definitely liked what she was seeing. Her mustard yellow gown was in soft velvet, with a bodice that didn't so much draw attention to her ... assets ... as serve them up on a flouncy lace doily. Her curtsy was short and to the point, and she was already rising as he descended the steps to her.

"Lady, uh ..." Alistair swallowed, feeling the tips of his ears burning as he desperately tried not to look further down than her chin. "Lady Callista, you ... you seem to be ..." He forced the whimper not to emerge, and gave up. "Welcome to Denerim."

"I am truly delighted to be here, your majesty," Callista informed him, her accent as rich and promising as her form suggested it would be. She seized his arm, pressing the back of his hand a little closer to the very edge of her neckline than he was entirely comfortable with. "And may I say how delighted I am to find that Ferelden's king so very much _more_ handsome than his portrait suggests?"

"Uh ..." At a loss for words, and still trying not to look down, Alistair floundered, unable to think of a single thing he could possibly say while moving to present her to her chaperone of the evening, the matronly Arlessa Elayne.

He'd never been flirted with _quite_ that enthusiastically before; she had him stumbling over his tongue with barely a momentary effort, knowing perfectly well that he did not have the first idea where to look that wasn't her generously displayed cleavage or that naughty-eyed gaze of hers. Every part of her strategy seemed designed to inform him that no other woman would be quite as much fun in bed as she was. It was almost a relief to walk back to the throne and Dem's knowing smirk, but he couldn't help glancing back toward the voluptuous Nevarran woman once he was sat down.

"Plenty to hold onto there," Dem murmured, making him choke on his wine.

"I was trying not to think about that," he spluttered, hoping he hadn't dribbled on his tunic. _Not the impression I'm supposed to be making ..._

"Why not?" his friend commented, sounding far too happy for his peace of mind. "That's obviously what's on her mind. Make sure you lock your door at night."

Alistair gaped at her. "D-don't ... no," he said firmly, turning back to the doors. "No, I'm not ... No."

"Lady Rosamunde Darvelle of Gwaren!"

Wiping his mouth, he spared a brief glare for the elven rogue leaning against his throne, and turned his eyes forward once more. Another bold-eyed woman, though more modestly presented than the last, nonetheless Rosamunde carried herself like a queen already. Fereldan to her toes, she was just a little intimidating to Alistair. This was someone who knew his history, and came from Loghain's part of the country.

"Lady Rosamunde, welcome," he said as warmly as he could manage, not entirely sure he was comfortable with the expression in those bold cinnamon eyes of hers. "Please, rise."

She took his hand, meeting his gaze with forward assumption. "Your majesty," she greeted him in return. "Thank you for inviting me."

"It is always a pleasure to have fellow Fereldans here at court," he answered, instantly wincing at his own turn of phrase.

"Do you not consider all these arls and banns Fereldan, your majesty?" Rosamunde asked, a brittle edge to her tone that flustered him immediately.

"No, I mean, yes, that is ... I meant to say it is a pleasure to have _you_ here," he managed awkwardly. "Not that it isn't a pleasure to have everyone else here, too, of course." He only just kept himself from looking over his shoulder to Dem, mentally screaming for someone to rescue him.

"I can understand your reticence, your majesty," Rosamunde allowed him as he steered her to the corner of the room he was most uncomfortable with. "It is, of course, difficult to discover true Fereldans among our countrymen these days, since the death of our champion."

"Our ... champion?" Alistair asked hesitantly. He had a horrible feeling he knew what was coming.

"The sense of true patriotism in our land has fallen dramatically since Loghain fell," Rosamunde informed him, apparently without malice. But if she meant no harm, why say it at all? He'd been the one to wield the sword, after all. And he had to endure presenting her to Anora.

Who didn't give him a moment to speak. "Rosamunde, how wonderful to see you," the former queen declared, taking the woman's hand into both her own and completely ignoring the king himself.

"It is an honor, your grace, to see you once more in the capital," Rosamunder responded, her voice suddenly much warmer for a disgraced ex-queen than it had been for the king she supposedly wanted to marry.

Alistair did the only sensible thing he could do - he bowed to them both, and got as far away as he could as quickly as he could. He didn't want to hear them discussing the one and only execution he had performed with his own hands.

As deserved as Loghain's end had been, it had never sat particularly well on his shoulders that he had taken the head of a true hero. For all the man's faults toward the end, he had delivered Ferelden from the Orlesians with King Maric. The fact that he had died a traitor at the hands of the angry young man his best friend had never once openly acknowledged as his son stung Alistair still. Though it had felt right at the time, in the months following he had been forced to confront the fact that he had acted out of a wish for vengeance, not justice. There had been no need for Loghain to die like that; indeed, Dem had been given the option of inducting the man into the Grey Wardens. Yet the grieving anger that filled Alistair at that fateful Landsmeet had not allowed for any shades of gray. He'd looked at Loghain, and saw the man who had killed Cailan, Duncan, so many thousands of others, in his paranoia and hubris. He'd wanted Loghain's blood spilled in payment for Duncan's life, for the fact that he now had to be king in place of a brother he'd never known. It had been revenge, not justice, and it had taken him years to accept what he had done. Whole populations across the country had not agreed with the execution. Apparently Rosamunde of Gwaren hadn't forgiven him for it, either.

"Let me guess," Dem mused as he sank back onto the throne. "She has _views_ on Loghain?"

"And an ally in Anora," Alistair told her quietly, his expression solemn. He'd never told Dem about his regrets over this particular issue, knowing she had wanted the teryn dead as vehemently as he - perhaps more so, given the way he had sold her family into slavery.

"Beats me why you invited Teryna Tight-Knickers to this shindig in the first place," his friend pointed out in a mild tone. "Or let her stay a Teryna, for that matter."

"We took enough away from her, Dem," Alistair said sadly. "She showed her hand, and she lost."

"Without any grace," Dem reminded him, but she subsided at a glance from him. "All right, I won't provoke her. Just ... don't marry her pet, all right?"

Alistair sighed, leaning back on the throne. "I hope the others are less ..."

"Less?"

"... _everything_ ," he groaned, taking a deep breath as he sat upright once more. He signaled the herald for the fifth time.

"Her Royal Highness, Princess Felicita Amelita Braulia Salome of Antiva!"

Unconsciously, Alistair sat straighter at the announcement of a princess, instantly feeling like a fraud. The young woman now making her way from the wide doors had been born into royalty, lived her whole life as royalty. He was just a bastard. But who was wearing the crown in this equation, he reminded himself. There was no suggestion of even a glimmer of gold on the beautiful woman approaching the throne, not even a glimpse at her ears or her neck. _Actually ..._ He focused his eyes on her as she drew closer. No, there was nothing ostentatious about her at all.

Thick black hair caught into silver thread cages on the sides of her head, a trail left to curl down her back and over her shoulders; golden-brown eyes that seemed to be smiling of their own accord; smooth skin whose color put him in mind of the gently tawny coat of his favorite mabari in the kennels. Her gown was modest; a deep red bodice with puffed sleeves that ended at the elbows in a cascade of white lace, over a black skirt that skimmed the floor with each step.  She was calm, poised, just as Amandine had been, offering no challenge in her smile as she lowered into a smooth curtsy before the dais.

Alistair almost tripped over his own feet in his rush to help her rise, feeling like a fool before he even opened his mouth. What came out of his mouth did _not_ help that feeling.

"That's a very ... long name you have, Princess Felicia Ame ..." He trailed off, feeling himself blush as she raised a brow curiously. His lips moved silently as he recounted her name in his head. In years to come, he could never quite pinpoint what had possessed him to continue. "Welcome to Ferelden, Princess Fabs. Do you mind if I call you Fabs? Because you're ... fab ..."

He heard Dem snicker behind him as his voice trailed into silence. The princess' wide mouth was twitching toward another smile, betraying the hint of a dimple in her left cheek.

"That is a very familiar thing to do with a person you have just met, your majesty," Felicita told him. At least he was on firmer ground with her voice; he'd had to listen to Zevran talking far too often to get lost in the intricacies of the Antivan accent. "I was not aware that, in Ferelden, strangers are welcomed with pet names."

His mouth dropped open. "But ... didn't you come here to marry me?" he asked, a little bewildered, silently thanking the Maker, Andraste, and whatever other handy gods were out there that no one else could actually hear him talking to her yet. Dem didn't count.

The princess tilted her head. "I do not know you, your majesty," she reminded him. "Nor do you know me. If this month allows us the means to change that, perhaps I may wish to marry you. But you really shouldn't show such partiality on the first night. You may offend your other guests."

"I wasn't saying I _want_ to marry you -"

Alistair abruptly shut his mouth. She had a good point there. _I really have to stop just talking for no good reason._ Pulling himself together, he cleared his throat, turning to lead her across the room to where Fergus Cousland was grinning at him. No doubt the Teryn of Highever could make a reasonable guess at why his king was blushing like a beetroot - Alistair's ability to make himself sound like an idiot when he didn't think before speaking was close to legendary among those he called friend.

"Princess Fa - Felicia, may I present Teryn Fergus Cousland, who will be your escort for the evening," he eventually steeled himself to say as they reached his friend. "I believe you have already met?"

"Indeed we have, your majesty." Fergus bowed to the princess. "Princess Felici _ta_ , it will be an honor to escort you this evening."

"Thank you, Teryn Cousland." The princess smiled as her hand laid gently on Fergus' arm, releasing Alistair from her grasp. "And thank you, your majesty. It is a pleasure to visit Ferelden."

Alistair felt the last of his inner strength crumble. _I didn't even welcome her to the country._ He sighed, bowing to her with resigned defeat. "Ferelden is very pleased to have you, your highness."

Stepping away, he walked smartly to the dais, circling around behind Dem and the throne, and sank down into a crouch, the crown hanging from one hand as he cradled his head in his arms. He might even have been groaning; he was too caught up in his own idiocy to notice. A familiar callused hand touched the back of his head.

"This is a _disaster,_ " he whimpered into his arms, feeling Dem crouch down beside him.

"It'll only get worse if you hide behind here for the rest of the night," she pointed out gently, stroking her fingers over the back of his head.

It was oddly comforting to have her do that, transporting him back to those first awful days after the Battle of Ostagar, when she'd comforted him during his outbursts of grief over losing everything in the course of a single night. Despite all the hardships, he sometimes wished he was back there in those times, when it had been just the two of them against the whole world. At least then he had known who his friends were, who he could lean on safely. And he wasn't in a room with several women who wanted to marry him. Correction, four women who wanted to marry him, and one princess who apparently had the ability to make his brain disengage from his tongue just by saying hello. And there were five more waiting to be presented. He groaned again.

"All right, Longshanks," Dem said sharply. "Get up, sit on the throne, and do your duty. The Alistair _I_ know doesn't hide behind big bits of metal just because a pretty girl got him so jumbled he forgot how to speak properly. You're the king. Act like it."

He raised his head, surprised to hear her actually say aloud that he was better than this. He knew she felt that way, of course, but it was surprisingly reassuring to hear her say it. Taking a deep breath, he put the crown back on his head, wincing as the familiar weight sparked off the familiar headache all over again, and rose with her.

"I can do this," he said, nodding to her as she patted his shoulder. "Yes. I can do this. I just ... have to stick to small talk."

"The smaller, the better." Dem smirked, stepping back to allow him to come out from behind the throne and take his seat yet again.

_Only five more to go,_ Alistair reminded himself. _Halfway there._ He raised his chin, nodding to the herald who was eyeing him worriedly from the door. _I can do this._

"Lady Leona Charing of Starkhaven!"

Presenting a calm face to the beauty walking toward him, Alistair was struck by the contrasts she presented. Her skin was sepia, the mellow-brown shade of the faded portraits that hung in the long gallery - portraits he always wanted to reach out and touch because of that clouded warm quality - yet her hair hung bright about her face and shoulders in delicate waves of tawny-gold. Her expression was serene, yet her gown was elaborately made, yellow and red brocade trimmed with crimson velvet. She curtsied like a queen, but he was pleasantly reassured to note the nervous uncertainty in the midnight depth of her eyes. He wasn't the only one wary of this entire situation.

"Welcome to Ferelden, Lady Leona." _Get that out there right from the start this time._ "I hope you have found your quarters comfortable?"

"Very much so, your majesty," she answered, her voice so soft he had to strain to catch her words. "I've yet to grow used to the climate. Starkhaven is a much warmer place to live."

"I have heard that," Alistair agreed, relieved that she, too, seemed to be focused on small talk. The weather was a much safer topic than handing out familiar pet names to complete strangers. "But the summer here is very pleasant, I can assure you."

"I am glad to hear it," Leona admitted, glancing curiously about the room as he drew her toward Bann Teagan. "I must admit, 'tis an honor to be invited to Andraste's birthplace."

He floundered for a moment. The last thing he had expected was a comment on the religious mythology surrounding Denerim. "I believe the sisters at the Chantry are highly educated in the mythology surrounding Andraste's origins," he offered, groping for something to say that wouldn't seem trite or dismissive. "Should you wish to speak with them about it, I am sure something could be arranged."

"That is very kind of you, your majesty, thank you."

Alistair felt his ears burn at her smile, genuinely pleased to see the nerves in her ease off at a small gesture of kindness. "Uncle, may I present Lady Leona. My lady, this is Bann Teagan Guerrin, who has offered to be your chaperone for the evening."

"A pleasure, my lady." Teagan bowed to Leona, offering her his arm. He did, however, cut a brief concerned glance in Alistair's direction. The momentary break down had not gone entirely unnoticed, it seemed.

"Thank you, Bann Teagan." Leona's hand left Alistair's perhaps a little too quickly, but at least she didn't look as though there was a frightened nug hiding behind her eyes any longer.

Alistair pretended to ignore the concern on his uncle's face, inclining his head to them both as he headed back to the throne. He seemed to be doing a lot of walking this evening, he realized belatedly. Wasn't the point of being king that you _didn't_ have to do all the walking yourself? Still, that one had gone reasonably well. She was pretty. Void, they were all beautiful, but some certainly caught the eye more than others. Despite himself, he found his gaze flickering toward Lady Amandine as he settled on the throne, forcing himself to nod to the herald once again.

"Lady Ceridwyn Isolde Ardvale of Kirkwall!"

_Isolde?_ Alistair felt Demelza stiffen at his shoulder, both of them glancing toward Eamon and his wife before the appearance of the latest guest grew their attention away. Lady Ceridwyn could have been Dem in human guise - taller, certainly, but possessed of the same fiery, unruly hair, almost transparently pale skin, and cheeky green eyes. Her gown was green satin and gold, in the Free Marches style, but she walked like a woman more accustomed to wearing pants. And she _bowed_ before the throne.

"Evening, your majesty," she greeted him with a cheerful flicker to her gaze as he rose to join her at the foot of the dais. "The viscount sends his regards."

For the first time all evening, a true smile crossed Alistair's face as he took the hand of a prospective bride. "I'm sure he does," he said warmly. "How is Varric settling in to his new position?"

Ceridwyn's grin was bright and unstudied. "He's giving all the old Orlesian families absolute fits," she informed the king rather gleefully. "Insisting on them paying their taxes upfront and on time so the repairs to the city can be made in good time. The Guard Captain shouts at him a lot, too."

Alistair snorted with laughter. "I can imagine." He'd never met Aveline, but from what little Varric and Isabela had told him about the woman, he could well imagine her berating the new viscount for any orders she disagreed with. "I'll have to send him my regards."

"He likes letters, so I hear," Ceridwyn assured him. "Incidentally, I'm not here to marry you. I've got my eye on Highever."

Alistair's sudden laugh echoed around feasting hall, drawing the open speculation of just about everyone around them.

"I probably shouldn't admit that I am deeply relieved to hear that, my lady," he answered her with another genuine smile, drawing her toward Bann Tolveyn. "Alas, he already has duties this evening, but I'll do my best to throw him in your path as much as I can." _See how Fergus likes being the bait on the hook._

"I'll be eternally grateful, your majesty." Ceridwyn tipped him a sly wink, looping her arm through Tolveyn's elbow before Alistair had a chance to introduce them. "You're the valiant protector of my virginity tonight, serah?"

The elderly Tolveyn looked like a nug caught in a bear trap, casting a slightly panicked look toward his king. "I ... yes, my lady," he managed, patting her hand on his arm as though she was a daughter or granddaughter. "Bann Tolveyn of Dragons Perch."

"It's a pleasure." Ceridwyn nodded cheerfully to Alistair before turning her full attention to her elderly chaperone. "What do I have to do to get a decent drink?"

Chuckling to himself, Alistair shook his head as he returned to the throne, catching Dem's curious smirk with a grin.

"I'll tell you later," he promised his friend, far more relaxed than he had been half an hour before. Kirkwall manners were some of the friendliest he'd ever come across; it was going to be a pleasure watching Ceridwyn Ardvale lay siege to Fergus Cousland's avowed chastity.

"You'd better," the elven Warden warned him in amusement. "Haven't seen you laugh like that for years."

"Trust me, the wait will be worth it," he assured her, smiling as he nodded to the herald at the door, raising his cup to his lips. He took a mouthful, turning his eyes to the door ... and his cheeks bulged, lips pressed tight together in an attempt not to spit his wine across the dais.

"Lady Maria Eduarda Manuela of Rivain!"

Lady Maria hesitated on the threshold of the doorway as an unkind ripple of laughter swept through the hall. She was beautiful, like all the others; skin the shade of bronzed umber, shy dark eyes that widened at the laughter, black hair caught in ringlets about a sweet face, her gown pink satin and white. She was also ten years old.

"Sweet Maker, they sent a _child_ ," Alistair breathed, frozen in place. "Who sends a _child_ to be a bride?"

He had absolutely no idea what to do, ashamed of the Ferelden nobles and their guests for laughing, though their volume did not rise as time went on. He didn't need to look to know that the reason they weren't getting any louder was because Dem was glaring at them. Only a few faces in the crowd were not smiling - Fergus, Teagan, Alfstanna, Shianni - people he knew were more angered by the way the girl was being received than amused by the fact of her arrival. And the longer he hesitated, the longer the amusement around him seemed to grow.

A swish of skirts caught his attention, rescuing him from his paralysis. Princess Fabs was moving, walking swiftly to the doorway to curtsy to little Lady Maria. As he watched, the laughter died on the lips of the nobles around them, aware now that the royal guest in their midst had better manners and a greater sense of dignity for everyone around her than they had just displayed. It was no surprise to see the Antivan ambassador beaming, as though his favorite granddaughter had just displayed a remarkable skill before the unworthy host around them.

As Alistair rose from his seat, intending to go and greet the little girl at the door and feeling a fool for freezing in place at the unexpected turn of events, he saw Lady Maria smile hesitantly at the princess, taking her hand as the Antivan royal rose to her feet. The two advanced toward the throne together, hand in hand, the princess doing more for the little lady's confidence than any reassurance he could give, he was certain. But he kept moving, choosing to join them in the midst of the feasting hall, redeeming himself a little with the bow he offered to little Lady Maria before moving to one knee before her.

"Welcome to Ferelden, Lady Maria," he told her, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. "I apologize on behalf of my court. They appear to be too deep into their cups to have recalled their good manners. I am _sure_ they will do their utmost to make you feel welcome in your time here."

The little girl glanced up at Princess Fabs, who squeezed her hand encouragingly as she smiled back. Then she turned her shy eyes onto the king she had been sent all this way to meet.

"Thank you, your kingness," she said, her voice tiny in the wide space.

Alistair felt himself grin at the new title - it was certainly far more charming than your majesty was ever going to be. Casting aside the thought that anyone was ever going to convince him to marry a child, he let his thoughts run to his mouth.

"Tell me, Lady Maria," he said thoughtfully, leaning a little closer as though sharing some deep secret, "do you like puppet shows?"

The pretty little face in front of him lit up hopefully, stiff ringlets bouncing as Maria nodded, too shy to say another word. Alistair's grin warmed further.

"I do, too," he told her conspiratorially, delighted when she almost giggled. "May I escort you to see the puppet show on market day?"

Another nod, this time just a little bit awed that the King of Ferelden not only liked puppets, but wanted to take _her_ to see some. Alistair nodded back to her.

"That's decided, then," he said, raising his head to look up at the princess standing with them, startled to find her smiling at him with more warmth than she'd offered when she'd presented herself. "Your highness, would I be an awful cad if I asked you to take Lady Maria under your wing for the evening?"

"I should be delighted, your majesty," the Antivan woman answered. "The bond between Antiva and Rivain is one I treasure, and I shall very much enjoy Lady Maria's company."

Alistair felt a sense of having passed some kind of test, an unexpected thrill of achievement. He nodded, pleased with the outcome of what could have been quite ugly, rising to his feet to take Maria's other hand in his as he moved to escort them both into the care of Fergus Cousland. The Teryn's frown had relaxed into a smile with the salvation of the situation, and he, too, lowered onto one knee to greet the Rivaini child warmly as Alistair bowed and returned to the throne.

Dem's expression was about an inch away from declaring bloody murder on the entire room. "Who," she demanded in a low hiss as he arrived in earshot, " _who_ laughs at a scared child? How _dare_ they?"

"Easy, Dem," he tried to mollify her. "She's in good hands."

"That Antivan has more sense than everyone else in this room put together," the elven rogue fumed, drumming her fingers on one of the hilts at her hips. "Most of your precious _ladies_ laughed, too, you know."

"Who didn't laugh?" he asked curiously.

"The Starkhavener, the Kirkwall girl," Dem answered smartly. "And your princess, of course. Looks like we cut your list down to three, because if you marry _anyone_ who laughs at a scared child in public, I will defenestrate you, Longshanks."

He blinked. "You'll what?"

She smirked at him. "Push you out a window," she translated. "Good word, isn't it? The Inquisitor's one-eyed Qunari taught me that one."

"So if _de_ fenestrating is pushing someone out of a window, does that mean fenestrating is ... putting a window in them?" Alistair asked, genuinely fascinated with this meandering bit of useless information.

"I guess so." Dem laughed suddenly. "See, I _don't_ just stab people. I fenestrate them."

He snorted with laughter, turning to sit himself down on the throne once more. "Two more to go," he sighed, catching the herald's eye.

The man looked mildly horrified by the behavior of the nobles himself, but he did still have a job to do. He pulled himself together, slamming the heel of his staff on the flagstones to call for the attention of the gathering.

"Lady Delphine Octavie Tabouillot of Orlais!"

Who was, even Alistair had to admit, a vision. What was also immediately obvious was that she _knew_ it. Easily the youngest _feasible_ prospect so far, she flounced joyously into the hall, preening under the gaze of so many turned in her direction. Another blonde who displayed herself in deep red, she wore no mask unlike her fellow Orlesian, her shoulders left bare by a neckline that indecently skimmed her breasts. Her gait as she walked seemed designed to draw the eye to the bounce in her bodice. Alistair swallowed nervously. He already had a feeling he was going to be under siege from one of the ladies already presented, and it looked as though this one might join in.

" _Majesté_ ," she declared as she dropped into a fulsome curtsy at the base of the dais, rising even before he had the opportunity to stand himself. "It is such an honor to be invited to your country!"

_Well, at least she's excited,_ Alistair mused to himself, trying to ignore Dem's poorly disguised snickers behind him as he stepped down to take the Orlesian girl's hand.

"It is a ..." He hesitated as she enveloped his hand in both her own, batting big brown eyes at him hopefully. _Maker's breath ..._ "Uh, you are very welcome, Lady Delphine," he managed, his eyes scanning the hall more out of panic than a real desire to look at the thinly-veiled disapproval on the faces of his court.

"I hope very much to be honored with _your_ presence during my time here, _majesté_ ," she added, a comment that put her firmly in the besiegers section of the prospects all around him. "A king should always be handsome, don't you think?"

"I-I ... I can honestly say I have never looked at a king and reflected on his handsomeness," Alistair fumbled, trying to extract his hand from her grasp as discreetly as possible while gesturing to Bann Ceorlic. He couldn't escort her anywhere while she was breathlessly clinging to his fingers and being just a little too eager for his company.

Delphine laughed, and to his surprise, it was a husky, sultry sort of sound that fell from her lips, immediately catching the attention of certain parts of him he did _not_ want her to notice. "I am sure that, in such cases, you are the handsomest man in the room, _majesté_."

"Uh ... thank you, my lady. Ah, Bann Ceorlic." Alistair had never been so pleased to see the crotchety old patriot in all his life. "May I present Lady Delphine? My lady, Bann Ceorlic will be your chaperone for the evening."

The brief flicker of distaste on the girl's face told him everything he wanted to know about her. She wanted a crown, and the fact that he was only a decade older than her seemed to have decided in his favor. Alistair neatly placed her grasping hand onto the old Bann's arm, bowing as Ceorlic drew her away from the dais. _Let Ceorlic bore her into wanting to leave._

"She seems friendly," Dem commented as he thumped down onto the throne, automatically handing him her own cup as he groaned under his breath. "Might want to stay away from closets around that one."

"I'm not going to go into a closet with her," Alistair defended himself, only a little gruffly. Between them, Delphine and Callista might drive him to lock _himself_ in a closet entirely alone and refuse to be extracted.

"Don't worry, Longshanks," the elven Warden assured him with an audible grin. "I'll buy you a chastity belt, how about that?"

"I'll wear a chastity belt when you convince Monster to wear one," he countered, abruptly chuckling at the thought of her studly mabari even considering consenting to such a thing. "I hope he knows he's to stay away from Lady this time. She did not enjoy having puppies."

"If she's in the kennels, I am not taking responsibility for Monster rutting on her," Dem shot back with a grin. "Besides, with him boosting the population, you'll be able to give all your runners-up in this marriage contest a pup to take home."

"I would never send a mabari to Orlais. The very thought!" Alistair gasped exaggeratedly, signaling to the herald for the final time. At least this last one was Fereldan. "Be nice, this one's from your arling."

"Lady Ciara Trevithic of Amaranthine!"

Dem rolled her eyes. "I haven't visited _my_ arling for about four years." She did look up curiously at the name, though. Trevithic was one of the banns who had actually supported her during the disaster that had been the Architect and the Mother.

The girl that entered was the youngest bar one of the ladies who had presented themselves, only just old enough to be considered marriageable among the nobility. She was a picture perfect Fereldan woman; fresh faced, cream skin touched with rose, blue eyes, long thick waves of honey-brown hair. Garbed in blue and green, she didn't smile as she curtsied, seemingly more shy and worried than any of the others had been prepared to show. It must have been her first visit to any noble gathering, Alistair realized, feeling a pang of sympathy for the girl as he reached to help her rise.

"Welcome to Denerim, Lady Ciara," he told her, meaning it a little more than he had for anyone but little Maria thus far this evening. But then, Ciara was barely more than a child herself, for all her beauty and trained grace. No wonder she looked so frightened of everything around her. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Thank you, your majesty," she answered, the barest tremble in her voice betrayed by the gentle quiver of her hand in his. "I have never been to the capital before."

"Then I hope you find yourself at home here before too long," Alistair assured her. He glanced briefly to Dem, a subtle shake of her head telling him not to even think about making her an escort for the evening, and gently began to lead the girl on his arm toward the reassuring presence of Bann Alfstanna. "Though I doubt we can compare to the familiar sights of Amaranthine."

To his relief, the girl at his side smiled faintly. "There is beauty everywhere, your majesty," she offered in her shy way. "You simply have to look for it."

Unbidden, a memory stirred in Alistair's mind - of a single rose in the midst of the chaos in Lothering, just days before that village was razed to nothing by the Blight. He smiled in answer, inclining his head as he gently transferred her to Alfstanna's care.

"Very true, my lady," he agreed. "Please, enjoy the evening. Bann Alfstanna will  take care of you."

"Thank you, your majesty."

As he turned away, Alistair could feel that smile lingering on his lips, just barely aware of the curious eyes that followed him. His gaze found that of little Lady Maria, watching him solemnly over the rim of a cup that appeared to have been filled with milk. He winked at her, his smile deepening to a grin as the little girl giggled, tucking herself a little closer behind the dark skirts of the Antivan princess. _Well, at least one of them likes me,_ he reflected, returning to the throne for the last time as the herald slammed his staff against the stone for silence. All eyes turned to the king as he raised his cup.

"To Wintersend!" he declared, listening to the echo of their voices as they toasted him and each other. His stomach growled, his ears burning as Dem snorted into her wine. Well, it _had_ been a long day, and the smells wafting from the kitchens were not helping. "Ah ... shall we eat?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Princess Felicita begins to understand exactly what she has let herself in for here, and comes to an important decision.

The dawning sun over Ferelden was weak in the last hard frost of the winter. Even the city of Denerim was iced over, the rain of the day before frozen solid, necessitating a certain amount of violence for most people to even get their doors open. In the palace, servants both human and elven had been up before the dawn came, setting the fires, preparing the breakfasts, gathering themselves for their own morning meal before waiting patiently to attend to the king and his guests. The king, of course, was up with the dawn, and the Warden-Commander, too, but the ladies' floor was quiet until a good hour or more past the rising of the sun. Understandably, the servants reflected - most had ended a long journey yesterday only to attend a feast that had stretched into the small hours of the morning. It would be a surprise to see many of them up before the morning was half-gone.

Indeed, the morning was half-gone when the loud slamming of a door in that wing startled Felicita awake. She jerked, warm eyes snapping open to take in the unfamiliar grayness of the room about her. For a moment, she was confused, raising her head to take in the bedchamber she found herself in. Dim sunlight filtering in through thick glass, a merry fire blazing in the hearth, thick rugs on a gray stone floor, and a small child cuddled close against her in the nest of covers that adorned the bed. It was the gold crest of the house of Theirin on her blankets that reminded her where she was and why Maria of Rivain was in the bed with her. The little girl had refused to leave her side even after the feasting was done, and rather than send a child to a cold chamber all alone, Felicita had invited her to spend the night in her own bedchamber with her.

It had been a good idea, she reflected, growing aware of the clinging chill that not even the bright fire in the hearth could completely banish. She stroked her hand gently over the stiff ringlets in Maria's hair, frowning at the way there was little to no give in the coils beneath her touch. _What did they use to make her hair do that?_ Felicita was no expert on Rivain, but even she knew that Maria's hair did not naturally fall into ringlets that looked more constructed than grown.

A screech from the hallway outside her door made her glance up. The rounded outrage of Marguerite's Orlesian tones was easily audible through the thick oak, rousing the child at the princess' side.

"... outrage! _Non_ , it shall not be born! I go home! _Now!"_

Maria whined, frowning her way out of sleep even as Felicita smiled to herself. _One down already,_ she mused, stroking the little girl's hair gently. _Congratulations, King Alistair._

"Shhh, little one," she murmured to the waking child at her side. "It is nothing to concern yourself with."

Maria blinked owlishly as she looked up at the princess she found herself cuddled against, confusion dominant in her dark eyes as she then looked around the room. The suggestion of tears showed itself on her face as she, too, recalled where she was and why, and Felicita found herself gathering the little girl into her arms.

"There is no need for tears, Maria," she promised quietly. "Lady Marguerite is leaving us, that is all. I will not let anyone upset you again."

"I do not want to marry the king," Maria whimpered against the soft folds of Felicita's nightgown. "He is old!"

Felicita bit her lips together in an attempt to hold in her smile. Despite everything, she had actually found herself rather impressed with King Alistair. He was handsome and charming, and in spite of his mistakes, he had shown himself to have a good heart in his dealings with Maria and the more nervous of the other ladies. He was also, she had been saddened to note, seemingly isolated in his own court. Few of the nobles had spoken to him above a formal greeting and farewell; most of his night had been spent alone in a crowded room, with only the elven Warden for company.

"He will not marry you, Maria," she promised the little girl in her arms. "He is a good man, he would not do that to a child."

To her surprise, this did not seem to be the comfort she had expected it to be. Maria sniffled louder, clung tighter to her, quietly just as miserable at the prospect of not being chosen to be Queen of Ferelden.

"What is it, little one?" Felicita asked her, concerned that this news had not lightened the fear in the child's heart. She tilted her head to try and catch the little girl's eye. "Why does this not make you feel better in yourself?"

"I do not want to go back," Maria whimpered, her lower lip wobbling as she looked up at the princess with wet eyes. "The Mother does not like me."

A faint frown settled between Felicita's brows. _The_ Mother ... a Chantry title, not a familial one. Yet why should the likes and dislikes of a Chantry Mother concern a child enough that she would not want to go home?

"But what of your own mother, Maria?" she asked as gently as she could. "Your father? They will miss you, will they not?"

The little girl shook her head, the stiff ringlets barely shifting with the motion. "I do not have a mother," she said unhappily. "The Mother says my father was a bad man."

"You have lived in the Chantry all your life?"

As Maria nodded, Felicita felt the beginnings of understanding make itself known in her mind, and she was certain she did not like what she thought she understood. The only place in Rivain that she knew of to entertain Chantry authority was the capital of Dairsmuid, where the monarchy was also based. She had wondered why Rivain had not sent one of their own princesses; it appeared that the king had placed the matter into the hands of the least influential Grand Cleric in Thedas, who had simply plucked a child from the Chantry orphanage. Was it a studied insult, she wondered, or was it a sign that the Chantry had so little care for Rivain's place within the Chant of Light that they would send a child in all seriousness to compete for a king's hand in marriage. Whatever the reason - and Felicita was going to find it out - Maria did not wish to return. That, at least, was a simple request to fulfill.

"How would you like to come to Antiva with me?" she asked the child softly. "When this is over, we will all be going to our homes. You could have a home with me, if you wish for it."

Maria's midnight-dark eyes glistened with unshed tears even as she gazed hopefully at the princess who had gone out of her way to protect her from the cruelty of laughing nobles the night before, and had comforted her all night simply by being there.

"Could I really?" she asked, afraid to hope too much for something that might not happen.

Felicita smiled. "Certainly you may," she promised. "I will speak with the Rivaini ambassador today myself, but only if you want to come with me."

"Oh, I do," the little girl rushed to say. "Don't make me go back to the Chantry, princess!"

"Well then, it is settled." Felicita's smile grew warmly, hugging the child for a moment. "And since you are now my little sister ... let us do something about breakfast and a bath."

She untangled one arm from their warm embrace as Maria giggled, reaching over to the bedside table, where a bell had been placed for her convenience. Just a few moments after she rang it, the door opened respectfully, and Andra, her assigned personal servant, slipped inside. To her credit, the elf's eyes only widened slightly to find the Princess of Antiva in bed with the little lady from Rivain.

"Good morning, your highness ... milady."

"Good morning, Andra," Felicita greeted her, surprised herself by the surprise in the elven woman's eyes at her remembering of the woman's name. "I wonder, do you know what is expected of us today?"

Andra bobbed an absent curtsy as she nodded. "King was supposed to be spending the day with that Orlesian lady, your highness," she offered. "Only she's leaving, and he said there's other stuff he needs to do anyway. He did give orders to prepare you all for an outing he has planned for tomorrow."

"Indeed?" Felicita was surprised to learn that she was slightly disappointed that there would be no chance to observe the king today. But this plan for tomorrow sounded promising. "What is it we shall be doing tomorrow?"

Andra looked slightly scandalized, but ploughed on to share the information she had. "You're to go down into the city, your highness," she said. "On foot, so I hear, and I've orders to make you look like a merchant, not a princess. A clean one, I swear. It's market day tomorrow - don't rightly know what the king's got planned, but I do know he goes to the market whenever he can."

Maria giggled against Felicita's shoulder, and the princess suddenly recalled that small snatch of conversation from the night before that had cemented Alistair in her mind as a good man. He'd invited Maria to see the puppet show on market day. The princess' smile grew, as much touched by his insistence on making that a certainty as amused by the intrigues that went _along_ with making it happen.

"That sounds like a very interesting outing," she mused, glancing down at Maria warmly. "Andra ... what is the protocol for breakfast here?"

"Protocol, your highness?" Andra looked blank for a moment. "Well, uh ... you tell me what you want, Cook makes it, and I bring it up here for you to eat?"

"We are not expected to eat in a group, then?" Felicita pressed, pushing herself to sit up.

"No, ma'am," Andra assured her. "Our orders are that you are to keep your own time and schedule until noon, after which time the king may request your presence, unless an official outing is arranged."

"That is remarkably civilized, thank you." Felicita glanced down at Maria beside her. "I wonder, could you inform whoever is tending to Lady Maria that she is my companion for the foreseeable future?"

Andra nodded, shaking out the two robes she had over her arms. "With respect, your highness, the maid who laid the fire told us about Lady Maria," she said, bobbing a small curtsy to the little girl as she helped Felicita into the warm black velvet wrapper over her nightgown. "Golda brought her robe to me, and she's happy to attend to this room, if you would rather stay together."

Felicita took the second robe from Andra's hand, beckoning to Maria to come out of the warm nest of blankets so she could be wrapped up in it. "Would you like to remain and share this room with me, Maria?" she asked gently.

The little girl squeaked as she wriggled out of the bed into the chilly air, eager to be enveloped in the robe that was her only chance of staying warm before she dressed now she was obliged to get out of bed.

"May I really stay with you, princess?" she asked hopefully. "All the time?"

Felicita laughed softly, letting the child lean into her side. "Of course you may, little one," she promised. "There may be times when we are not together, but I am sure we will make other friends among some of the ladies here. You will not be alone."

"I'll make sure Golda knows, ma'am," Andra assured them both, her pinched features softening in a warm smile. "What would you like to eat this morning?"

"What does the king eat for breakfast?" Felicita asked. After all, if she was to consider truly becoming a part of this contest, she should embrace the culture that surrounded her.

Andra grinned. "Hot bacon and fried potatoes this morning, your highness," she said, clearly proud of a king who ate like a commoner, albeit of better quality food.

The face Maria made was priceless. Felicita managed not to smile, though. "I will have that, then," she told Andra. "Is it possible to have some honeyed porridge for Maria? And perhaps some fresh fruit?"

The elven servant nodded cheerfully. "Yes, your highness, Cook will be glad to do that for you," she promised. "There's Rivaini tea, or Orlesian coffee, too. And apple juice for Lady Maria, if she'd prefer it?"

The little girl nodded in agreement, but was still silent in the face of an elf she was shy of.

"Tea for me, please." Felicita chuckled softly, stroking a hand over Maria's stiff ringlets. She grimaced faintly. "And a bath for Lady Maria afterward. We really must get whatever this is out of your hair, little one. It is awful." She raised her eyes to Andra once more. "Are any of the other ladies awake and not yet breakfasted?"

"I believe Lady Amandine and Lady Ciara are just stirring, your highness," the elven woman told her. "Lady Ceridwyn was up with the dawn and, well ... I'm sure you heard Lady Marguerite storming out. The others are still a-bed."

"Indeed." Felicita's smile was speculative. "Would you invite Lady Amandine and Lady Ciara to breakfast with us? We do not have to be enemies, after all."

The surprise on Andra's face was a little gratifying to see. Felicita was apparently not what she had been expecting in a princess, and it would seem that her expectations had been decidedly low to begin with. "I-I'll go ask them now, your highness," she said a little awkwardly. "Should I set the table in the common room, then?"

"I think that would be lovely, Andra, thank you."

As Andra bustled away, Felicita noted the smaller chest that had been set beside her own at the foot of the bed, and smiled. Andra and Golda had obviously been busy to make certain Maria had her own things close at hand when she woke.

"Well now, my lady," she told Maria warmly, "let us see about putting on some warmer clothes, shall we?"

Working together, it did not take long for the two of them to be dressed comfortably, though the chill clinging to the gray stone was still a little pervasive for Felicita's comfort. Since she was not required to be seen in public for at least a few hours yet, the princess elected to leave her hair in the braid that had held it overnight, taking Maria's hand as the pair made their way out of the bed chamber and along the corridor toward the common room that had been set aside for the king's guests.

It was a wide space, almost luxuriously furnished, both north and south facing walls bright with wide windows. The southern wall held a door that seemed to lead out onto a covered balcony over-looking a yard of sorts. The rugs that covered the stone floors were thick and warm, a bright array of colors in pleasing patterns that countered the oppression of being surrounded by gray stone. A significant bookcase stood in one corner, filled with tomes that might appeal to the ladies; small tables set about with comfortable chairs for smaller gatherings were in pleasant position, with games set upon them as a suggestion as to how they might pass their time; the wide hearth on the eastern wall blazed with a warm fire, and it, too, played host to comfort in the form of armchairs and couches, liberally covered with soft throws and bright cushions. The paintings on the walls showed typical Fereldan scenes, many containing depictions of the country's beloved mabari hounds in a wide array of activities, and, of course, the tapestry that hung above the fireplace showed the killing of the Archdemon at the end of the Fifth Blight. The room had been designed to envelop the ladies in comfort and warmth, as well as impress upon them that they were in Ferelden.

Maria tugged on her hand, pointing curiously to the tapestry above the fireplace. "Is that the king?" she asked softly.

Felicita tilted her head up to take a closer look at the tapestry. It was, indeed, King Alistair, in his golden ceremonial armor, wielding a sword jointly with the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. She frowned a little at that depiction; the artists appeared to have neglected to include Demelza Tabris' elven features - a great disservice, in the princess' view, to a woman who had done far more than anyone could ever have asked of her. Above them, the Archdemon was collapsing in gold and silver flames, darkspawn fleeing all around it.

"I believe it is," she agreed with the child. "He was very brave, with his friend. They were the only two Grey Wardens left in Ferelden when the Blight came ten years ago. If they had not been so brave, the Fifth Blight would have been far worse before it was ended."

"Who is the lady?" Maria asked curiously.

"I believe that is the Warden-Commander of the Grey," the princess told her. "The elven lady with the daggers we met last night, do you recall her? She is the Hero of Ferelden."

"Why doesn't she have ears?" the little girl pressed, pointing a little more insistently at the tapestry. "She has ears. I saw them."

"The people who made the tapestry were humans," a soft voice said from behind them, drawing their attention to Lady Ciara, who seemed uncertain whether she was welcome to join them, despite the invitation. "A lot of humans don't like that our Hero is an elf."

"Good morning, Lady Ciara," Felicita greeted the younger woman gently, surprised to find that she was still nervous away from noble eyes. But then, _she_ was noble eyes, wasn't she? "I hope you slept well?"

"I did, thank you, your highness." The Fereldan girl curtsied, her nervous expression touched with a faint smile for the welcome. "Good morning, your highness, Lady Maria."

"Good morning, Lady Ciara," Maria parroted from the princess' side, still clinging to Felicita's hand tightly. "You look very pretty."

A soft flush of rose painted Ciara's cheeks. "Thank you, Lady Maria," she answered in her soft way. "As do you."

"Please, Lady Ciara, there is no need to stand upon ceremony," Felicita told the younger woman warmly. "My name is Felicita - I should be very happy to have you use it."

Ciara seemed stunned by such a gracious offer. "I ... thank you, your- Felicita," she said, her smile rising with less fear than before. "And please, my name is Ciara. I am not used to being called _Lady_."

There was a pause as they shared a smile, into which Maria inserted herself.

"I'm Maria," she offered in a piping tone. "Are you going to have breakfast with us?"

Ciara seemed to relax a little further at the supreme lack of formal manners happening around her. No doubt just the prospect of meeting a princess face to face had been playing on her nerves, yet Felicita was evidently not what she had expected. She certainly didn't carry the airs of _some_ of the women they were currently sharing this floor with, that was for sure.

"I would very much like to breakfast with you, Maria," the younger woman answered hopefully. "I do not think Lady Amandine will be joining us, though. She didn't answer when I knocked on her door."

"Ah, I see." Felicita smiled faintly, feeling a glimmer of distaste. "It would appear that Lady Amandine has come prepared to play the game set before us. Please, Ciara, join us."

"What game?" Maria asked, her face upturned curiously as she scrambled onto one of the chairs set about the simple dining table.

Felicita met Ciara's eyes, both women a little bemused that the child had been sent to this ridiculous gathering without knowing quite what was going on around her.

"This gathering, Maria, is a competition of sorts," the princess explained as she, too, sat down, Ciara not far behind her. "We ladies have been brought together to spend a month in the company of the king, so that he might choose his queen from among us. There are certainly some of us who will be playing that game the best that they know how, and one way to do that is not to make friends among those they are expected to compete against."

"But you won't play?" the little girl pressed, glancing between the two women she sat with as Andra, Golda, and a third servant whose name had not been offered entered the common room to deliver their hot breakfast to them.

"I do not know the king," Felicita told her, pausing to thank the servants for serving them before laying her napkin over her knee. "Perhaps I will like him enough to hope that he will like me, but I will not pretend to be anything but what I am. I will not forsake a friend simply for the chance of wearing a crown."

"Our king will be inclined to like you, just for that," Ciara offered, cutting into her own breakfast. "He's known to be a straightforward sort of man. He doesn't like lies, probably because he was forced to live one for so long."

"The king had to be a lie?"

Maria was full of questions; questions that both Ciara and Felicita were happy to answer as they shared their first meal of the day. It was not a meal Felicita was accustomed to beginning her day with - in Antiva, her breakfast would normally consist of sweet rolls, hot milk with honey, perhaps an omelette with tomatoes and thinly sliced ham. The dish before her was what the king had eaten for breakfast himself; thick cut bacon, fried until the fat was crisp, and sliced potatoes fried in the same fat, it seemed. It was both bland and greasy, and not at all what she would have chosen for herself, far heavier than she was used to beginning the day with. But it was the food of Fereldan, and if, by some outside chance, she chose to engage in this game of cat and mouse with a crown, she would have to become accustomed to such foods. Thank the Maker there was, at least, fresh fruit to take the taste of fat from her mouth, and good Rivaini tea to settle her stomach.

As the afternoon wore on, Ceridwyn of Kirkwall made her appearance, ruddy-faced from the clinging chill outside, full of stories about her home and her exploration of the city that morning to entertain young Maria while Felicita and Andra struggled to remove the dreadful lacquer from the child's hair and restore it to its softer, more natural curl. Callista of Nevarra also joined them when it came to the later afternoon, sleepy-eyed and mildly hungover, volunteering her own supply of peppermint and lavender oil to soothe the child's abused scalp, but there was still no sign of Delphine, Rosamunde, or Amandine. Leona, they discovered eventually, had disappeared to the Chantry at dawn and was not expected to return until dinner.

It was a merrier gathering than Felicita had thought to find so soon after their presentation to the king, made all the merrier when Ceridwyn - who insisted upon being called Ceri - shared with them the reason for Lady Marguerite's abrupt flight from the palace. It appeared that the _very_ Orlesian lady had overheard some servants gossiping about the arrival of so many noble ladies, and had assumed that their opinions were also the opinions of the king. Understandably, those opinions had not been particularly complimentary toward _her_. Still, it narrowed the field a little for the beleaguered king, and allowed him a little breathing room in which to fortify himself against the month that lay before him.

And indeed, he was not long in extending an invitation to little Maria to join him for an hour or so before dinner. The little girl was not eager to go, but she was convinced to be obedient with promises of sweet rolls and sugar before bed that night. And in her absence, Felicita finally summoned the Rivaini ambassador to meet both herself and Don Carmello in the frost-cloaked gardens, to discover the reason for the child's presence for herself.

"It is not for me to say, your highness," Ambassador Morlan Ayre tried to dissemble when asked directly. "My homeland does not cling to the customs of other lands -"

"Ambassador Ayre, please do not think to lie to my face," Felicita told him sternly. "I know Rivain. I have met your king, his family. I _know_ that Lady Maria is not of royal blood. You will tell me why a child was sent to be a bride, or I will write to your king myself and request an answer of him."

The Rivaini ambassador fidgeted awkwardly, glancing away. Despite the promise of spring in the air, in the bright color of the roses beginning to bud in the gardens around them, winter still held tight to the world today. They were each wrapped warm in cloaks and hoods, yet not even that warm blanket of wool could completely disguise the tattoos and piercings that ornamented the Rivaini man's form, gold against dark ash skin. He was clearly a man of some considerable rank and wealth, yet he was ambassador to Ferelden, a country considered by most others to be still in a state of barbarism. What had Morlan Ayre done to be sent so far from home? This posting was not a reward, but a punishment.

Don Carmello glanced between his princess and his colleague. "Morlan," he said, gesturing with a gloved hand to the dark man before them. "Is there some danger pertaining to the child?"

Ayre shook his head quickly. "None that can be reasonably expected, Carmello," was his reply, sighing at the slip even as Felicita raised her brow.

"The king was not consulted," he said, after a long moment of awkward silence. "When I extended the invitation, he passed it on to the Grand Cleric. Dairsmuid, even without a Circle, is firmly in the Chantry's hands, and my king has no wish to cross them. The Grand Cleric chose the child from the ranks of foundlings and orphans. I believe she is intended as a form of insult, but the king is reluctant to admit he has allowed such an insult to be paid."

"Why would Maria be an insult from the Chantry to the King of Ferelden, ambassador?" Felicita asked, tucking the fur-trim of her hood back from her cheek with one gloved hand.

There was another uncomfortable pause. "The child ...  she was taken from the Circle when it was annulled," he said finally. "She is no mage, but ... she is the only daughter of a known Seer, executed when the child was young. Her presence in the Chantry is a source of strife for the Grand Cleric, and her parentage is known well enough that should King Alistair choose her, his standing among the monarchs of Thedas would suffer."

Felicita's eyes narrowed. "I see," she said coldly. "One would hope that the new Divine will take steps to curb the arrogance of her Rivaini clerics."

The Rivaini ambassador nodded reluctantly. "Indeed, I share that hope, your highness. I am ashamed for my country, and my king, that this has been allowed to happen. We honor our Seers, our hedge-witches, yet the Chantry condemns them, and it is the Chantry's voice that Thedas listens to. I fear the child will not live long, should she be returned to Dairsmuid."

Felicita cut a sharp look to her own ambassador. Don Carmello nodded smoothly; they had already discussed her intentions.

"Then you and I must come to terms, Morlan," he told his colleague. "My princess offers a position of wardship to the child Maria, a home at her side. It would seem beneficial to all concerned not to send the child back to Rivain."

Morlan Ayre blinked in surprise, the glitter of gold below his lower lip glinting in the afternoon sunlight as he glanced between ambassador and princess.

"King Alistair has also extended the same offer," he told them. "I believe the decision must be left to my king, and please be assured, the king _will_ answer it. I will not accept a response that is dictated by the Chantry, not in this. But I thank you for your care of Lady Maria. Andraste knows, she has few friends in this world."

"You may rest well assured that she has at least two friends in this world more than capable of protecting her from what she should not have to face in her homeland," Felicita told him, endeavoring to conceal her surprise at the news that she was not the only person here concerned for the child's well-being. "I will await your king's decision on the matter, but I will not allow her to be returned to Rivain without absolute assurance of her safety."

The Rivaini ambassador bowed low to her. "As you wish, your highness. I will take my leave."

She watched him walk back toward the palace, aware of Don Carmello's eyes on her. The frosted garden fell silent for a time, still clinging to the lingering end of winter where the sun did not shine, each step a crunch over hoarfrost and rime to play a staccato beat beneath the feet of those that walked there.

"It would appear that King Alistair is, indeed, the good man you described to me," she said eventually, her tone thoughtful as she considered this. "To offer protection and sanctuary to a child he barely knows anything of."

"As you did yourself, _principessa_ ," Carmello pointed out mildly.

Felicita's wide mouth curved into a dismissive smile. "Ah, but I am of Antiva, ambassador," she reminded him in amusement. "Our ties with Rivain run deep. I would fail in my duty to my forebears and those they called kin not to extend my protection to a child who needs it. The King of Ferelden has no such compunction, and yet ..."

"Yet he offers an orphan with no welcome at home a place beneath his wing and in his own palace," the Antivan ambassador agreed. "A position of more than mere comfort and safety, I suspect. He knows what it is to be a child alone in the world, without father or mother, or guardian who cares enough to treat him kindly."

She flicked a glance at him, curious to know what he meant by that, but unwilling to ask the question aloud. Oh, she knew the basic premise of King Alistair's past - an unacknowledged bastard son of Maric, raised by Arl Eamon until he was sent to the Templars and, from there, recruited into the Grey Wardens. She had not heard of any unkindness in the king's childhood, and yet it did make sense. Arl Eamon was a hard man, for all his seeming courtesy, and his wife ... Felicita's lips pulled tight for a moment. Ten minutes of conversation with Arlessa Isolde last night had been more than enough to cement forever the impression of the woman as a queen in her own mind; an Orlesian queen of Ferelden, who clearly enjoyed the power and influence her husband wielded in his place as advisor to the king.

It said much for the Ferelden court that those who company Felicita had enjoyed at the ball - truly enjoyed, rather than tolerated - had been of an earthier stock than the nobles they circulated amongst. Teryn Cousland, for one; Arl Teagan, for another; Banns Alfstanna and Shianni, too. Ceri of Kirkwall. And, of course, the Warden-Commander, whose coarse manners had offended most of the invited ladies, but quietly delighted Felicita. She had never met anyone quite like Demelza Tabris. Like most of Thedas, she admired the elven woman who had risen from nothing to save the world from a Blight against all odds, who owned her mistakes, and who refused to be pushed into the shadows ever again. In person, she found she truly _liked_ the irreverent elf. They might not share opinions on certain matters, but there was no need to be enemies over a difference of opinion. And Demelza had gone out of her way to make little Maria smile. Those were all better qualities than some of the born nobles could ever hope to possess.

"I suspect that, if such a tale is to be told, it should be his decision to tell it, ambassador," the princess mused in answer to Carmello's inviting expression. But she smiled at the hopeful glimmer that crossed the old man's face in response. "Oh, very well. What I have seen of him, I like. But I will not change myself to suit him. Should he like me, that is his own affair. He has much to occupy his time and his thoughts. None of us should expect a decision to be made for at least two weeks."

Carmello's smile was pleased as he nodded to himself. "You are, of course, correct, your highness. I shall endeavor not to hope too much on your score."

"Hope all you like, but do not interfere," Felicita told him, her voice warm with affection for this substitute father she had found on Fereldan soil. "Are you aware of this proposed visit to the city tomorrow?"

At this, the gray-haired Antivan frowned. "Indeed I am, highness," he assured her. "I ... I confess, I do not approve of it, but the king assures me there will be no trouble. I understand certain of the court will be accompanying your group for protection."

Felicita's smile was a little bemused. "They expect us to pass for merchant class, to blend in, yet recognizable faces from the court will accompany us?"

Carmello shrugged. "As I understand it, the arl insisted upon the provision of noble protection for the visiting ladies."

The princess let out a very unladylike snort of derisive laughter. "The arl truly does not know people at all, does he?"

The ambassador's lips flashed briefly into a grin, sharing his princess' opinion of Eamon Guerrin however silently. "I have no fear on your score, your highness," he assured her. "Nor for certain of the other ladies. There are one or two, however, who may not enjoy the outing as the king hopes they might."

"And why is it that we are _all_ being taken to see a puppet show?" Felicita asked him in amusement. "The invitation was made for Maria alone."

"True, but the king delights in mingling with the commons," Carmello told her as they walked between the frozen rosebushes. "I believe this may be his strategy for truly discovering who may be suitable to be his wife, and not simply his queen. You may have to steel yourself against further indignities, highness."

"Oh, however will I survive the indignity of being allowed to walk through a crowded street and talk to people without being curtsied and pandered to?"

It was the ambassador's turn to snort with laughter, hastily trying to cover the sound by coughing even as Felicita laughed her full-bodied laugh, one gloved hand resting on his arm. No, she was not the delicate princess he had been lead to believe would be his charge for this month and perhaps beyond, but that could only be a good thing. Ferelden was not _so_ barbaric as she had been told, promising simple, everyday wonders she found herself eager to uncover. It would not be such a hardship to play this game, albeit on her own terms. If King Alistair truly wanted a wife more than a queen, he would not find her lacking in those qualities that would appeal. But with the generous assets of Callista and Delphine on display ... it might take a little time for him to notice anything above the neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're off hiatus! Making no promises about a regular posting schedule, but the characters are awake and talking again, so let's see what we come up with, shall we? Thank you for being so patient with me!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which King Alistair learns a few interesting things about the ladies he must choose from, and something about himself.

Denerim market was bustling. The first market day after Wintersend was always a busy affair, packed with merchants and vendors eager to capitalize on the arrival of spring, and with it, a fresh influx of nobles newly returned to the city after wintering on their own estates across the country. Despite the chill that still clung in the air, the market was doing brisk business, with humans of all social levels mingling with elves and dwarves about their errands. The new College of Magi was even represented; mages and Tranquil manning a stall, as well as encouraging shoppers to visit The Wonders of Thedas, an amazing store stocked with enchanted good and rare volumes, once owned by the Circle and, through them, the Chantry.

Gossip was also in generous supply, an entire winter's worth of news to be shared between friends and rivals alike. There was plenty to do and to see ... yet most eyes turned with curious frequency to a small gaggle of guards traversing the stalls. Or rather, to the people those guards were guarding. 

"Oh, what a darling _petit marché!"_

King Alistair groaned inwardly, hoping his distinct discomfort wasn't too visible on his face. Lady Delphine of Orlais, with her eager youth and obvious ... assets ... had not been more than five steps from his side since he'd joined the ladies for their outing today.

Not all had chosen to come to the market - Rosamunde of Gwaren had declared it a waste of her time, and Leona of Starkhaven had already stated her preference to spend the day in the Chantry with the sisters. That, at least, cut down on the sheer number of women gathered around him, but Alistair was beginning to think that perhaps Eamon had been right about his plan for the day. Perhaps taking noble ladies - and one royal - from other lands to market day had not been such a well-considered idea. Still, most of the remaining seven who had agreed to come had, at least, allowed the servants to dress them appropriately for their outing. Most, but not all. Delphine had outright refused to be garbed as a merchant, and was flouncing around the marketplace in velvet and pearls; Ceridwyn of Kirkwall had produced her own hard-wearing leather pants and wool tunic, fitting into the mass of people far better than anyone else. Even Alistair's "disguise" was not so seamless as he might have liked; it was too clean and too finely made for him to be mistaken for a merchant or visitor to the city, and his face was too well known for anyone around him _not_ to know he was the king. Even without the guards, they would have stood out like a sore thumb.

And then there was the behavior of the ladies. True, the majority of them were quiet and calm. He hadn't seen the princess or little Lady Maria since they'd entered the market, nor Ceridwyn or Ciara, but he wasn't too worried about them. Demelza had attached herself to Princess Felicita and her party, dragging Fergus Cousland along with her, and both were openly armed. Alistair was definitely jealous of his friends for that. He would much rather have been in the company of the calmer ladies himself, but Delphine had made that all but impossible. Her attire declared her to be a noblewoman, her accent declared her to be Orlesian, and as the king, he couldn't really leave her side in case certain prejudices made themselves known. A suspicious man might have considered that to be her reasoning behind disobeying his request that she blend in. He didn't _like_ to be a suspicious man, but ... Well, she wasn't making the day particularly enjoyable for _him_.

She seemed determined to find everything around her both "charming" and "quaint", exclaiming with ridiculous enthusiasm over the simple necessities of life. Every other sentence was laced with suggestive innuendo aimed squarely at the contents of his pants. Had she confined such comments to private statements, that eagerness to bed him might have had the desired effect; as it was, Alistair was simply embarrassed, both by and for her. Thankfully, however - and he still wasn't sure that was an accurate assessment of how he felt about this development - Delphine seemed to be in direct competition with Callista of Nevarra, who was also amply blessed when it came to her figure but was apparently not so much interested in _him_ today as she was enjoying very much annoying Delphine with constant interruptions. If he hadn't been stuck in the middle, Alistair might even have found something to smile at in the near permanent flicker of impotent frustration marring the Orlesian girl's expression.

Take right now, for example ...

"Darling Delphine, your Orlesian manners are showing again," the Nevarran woman was saying, neatly separating Delphine from the king's arm by wrapping her own about the younger woman's elbow in a grip that actually _looked_ painful to try and break free from. "Do _try_ to remember you are in Ferelden, dear. It is customary to speak the local tongue, unless you are hoping to mobbed by offended merchants in front of our illustrious escort."

The look Delphine gave her was pure poison for a split second, before she recovered herself enough to produce her suggestive smile once more. She did, however, go slightly pale in her attempt to free herself from Callista's grasp, turning wide, pleading eyes to Alistair.

"I am sure I can be forgiven," she declared breathlessly, batting her lashes. "Distracted as I am by our handsome companion."

"Do you have something in your eye, darling?" Callista asked her, seeming to delight in misunderstanding the clumsy attempt to flirt past her. "Come, we will wash your face in that fountain. The kohl you have used on your eyes must be flaking."

As the Nevarran lady bore her protesting Orlesian companion away toward the communal fountain, Alistair took the opportunity to look away from them, his lips twitching as he fought not to smile along with the guards that were strategically placed around him. It did not seem as though those particular ladies were anything more than enemies, albeit perfectly behaved ones, but he couldn't help a surge of gratitude toward Lady Callista for rescuing him from the unnecessary attentions of Lady Delphine. No doubt Dem would have enjoyed watching how noblewomen dealt with one another, but she was nowhere to be seen in the crush of bodies around him. Neither was Fergus in sight. Still, at least Alistair could be confident that the ladies from Antiva, Rivain, Kirkwall, and Amaranthine would be well protected in the market under the watchful eyes of the Warden-Commander and the Teryn of Highever.

With a moment to breathe, he turned away from the sound of spluttering and splashing that signified Delphine being given an unwilling wash in public, only to find the rather charming sight of Lady Amandine of Tantervale laughing behind her hand at the spectacle he was trying to ignore. _Maker, but she really is lovely._

In daylight, away from the flattering flicker of torchlight and shadow, Amandine's natural charms were displayed to their best effect, from the slenderness of her figure to the intelligent sparkle in her dark eyes. She had not forced her company on him, either, apparently preferring to let the ladies from Orlais and Nevarra battle themselves to a standstill without her interference. Alistair could appreciate that; was grateful for it, even. It was something of a relief to feel several of the guards detach from his presence to keep an eye on Callista and Delphine, allowing him the near-luxury of attempting to converse with a pretty woman without the painful addition of an armored audience.

"How do you like the market, my lady?" he asked, rather proud of himself for managing to greet her with an unstudied pleasantry, rather than tortured flattery. The floor of his study had been littered with written attempts to prepare some complimentary comments for his noble party in advance. He was very grateful to the servants who had cleared them away before he woke up.

Amandine's laughter faded into a warm smile as he moved toward her, though he felt a vague sense of unease at the way she seemed to automatically curtsy to him. That wasn't helping them to blend in, if it was at all possible anymore.

"I like it very much, your - my lord," she assured him, correcting her address before she could draw too much attention to them. Her hand twitched toward his arm, but no more than that - a subtle reminder that, had they been alone, he should have offered her his arm as a gentleman. "It is bracing to be among the common people of the realm."

Alistair felt his brow rise at her phrasing. "You mentioned visiting a cattle market in Tantervale," he commented. "I would have thought an occasion like that would necessitate mixing with all levels of society."

"Oh, forgive me, my lord, but I am not permitted to visit the cattle market," Amandine corrected him mildly. "I simply watch from my window. No noblewoman would ever set foot in a common market-place in Tantervale."

 _I knew there had to be something wrong with her._ "You don't mix, then, in the Free Marches?"

"Not in Tantervale," she told him. "I understand that Kirkwall is a very different sort of place, where noble and commoner alike mix freely, but they are not the model for the Marches. Or rather, not the model for the places I have visited. Ostwick, Wycombe, Starkhaven, and Tantervale are very segregated places. Rather like your city and alienage."

A confused frown touched Alistair's expression as he looked down at her. "Perhaps as Denerim _used_ to be, my lady," he said, a prickle of defensive pride making itself known in his voice. "But, as you can see, we encourage the free mingling of all people here in Denerim, and in the farther reaches of the country, too."

"A most progressive attitude, my lord." Amandine seemed to have realized her misstep there, offering an apologetic smile along with her encouraging answer. "It is your own policy?"

Mollified by her unspoken apology, and by the interest she then showed, a faint grin lit up his face as he glanced around the market.

"I am rather pleased to say it is," he admitted. "This was an awfully dull sort of place when I first came here - everyone tucked away in their own neat little holes, never even looking at each other if they could help it. It's a terrible way to make friends, you know."

"But, as I understand it, the city _was_ operating smoothly under such conditions," the lady from Tantervale mused in a curious tone. "The integration caused some problems, I believe?"

Another frown touched his face. Was that disapproval he could hear in her voice? He'd always thought the Free Marches were a progressive sort of place, though his only experience of them had been a brief visit to Kirkwall a decade before. Could it be that this otherwise delightful young woman had opinions on the segregation of the races that were averse to his own?

"It was a time of great upheaval," he told her. "The battle with the archdemon and the darkspawn had destroyed much of the city. I like to think that the struggle to rebuild our home here helped to smooth the way for the integration policy. And, as you can see, it is a success, for the most part."

He gestured to the crowd around them - a crowd in which human noble and commoner mixed as easily as human and elf, or elf and dwarf. Alistair was proud of how multicultural his city had become since he'd reluctantly taken on the crown, and though he'd definitely made more than a few mistakes in the last ten years or so, market day in Denerim was always a sight to lift his spirits. He tilted his eyes to look at Amandine's face as she followed the line of his gesture ... and yes, there _was_ a hint of distaste in those lovely eyes of hers, centered on the sight of a nobleman haggling with comfortable ease over the wares at an elven merchant's stall. The elf was clearly a fine craftsman, and was just as clearly appreciated as such, as evidenced by the healthy look of his family manning the stall with him. But the sight of a human nobleman giving the time of day to an elf seemed to disquiet Lady Amandine.

Alistair sighed to himself. He owed Dem a silver crown. His elven friend had insisted that the lady from Tantervale was not what he needed, but he'd argued that she had all the requisite attributes to make a fine queen. And no doubt she _would_ make a fine queen, but he would rather not have to share a bed and a life with someone who thought elves and dwarves were somehow less worthy of the basic decencies than those born human. He dreaded to think what her opinions on mages were.

"Oh, there is no doubt that your city is one of the friendliest I have ever entered," Amandine hastened to say. It seemed as though his frown had been noted. "I am simply ... overwhelmed ... by how easy it is to speak with elves and dwarves as equals here. It is not an experience I have encountered in my lifetime."

Unfortunately for Amandine, despite her pretty words, the damage had been done. She had not spoken the apology he had accepted, and even now she was quick to try mollifying his feelings without stating any kind of agreement or approval of the one policy he had fought for right from the start and was exceedingly proud of. Alistair simply nodded to her, mentally revising the list that had become very short indeed in just two days.

So ... Marguerite had left in high dudgeon yesterday morning. Delphine was not even to be considered, being so offensively Orlesian as she was. Rosamunde, quite frankly, terrified him; she clearly worshiped Loghain as a misused hero, which would make conversation with her something of a battlefield. Ceridwyn was not interested in being a queen; she wanted Fergus and Highever, and was working on that in her own time. Amandine had just talked herself out of being a serious contender, which was a shame in a way; she was the first lady from the ball who had allowed him to think that perhaps this humiliating month of bride-finding wouldn't be so awful. Maria was ten years old, and besides, he was waiting on news from Rivain, hoping to adopt her as a ward of the Ferelden crown rather than send her back to what sounded like an awful childhood in Dairsmuid. That left Callista, Leona, Ciara, and Felicita ... a shortlist of four, cut down from ten. Despite his misgivings, Alistair was actually rather pleased with that. He would have to talk to Cormac this evening and rearrange the various activities. There was no point subjecting himself to a full day in the company of a woman he had already decided not to marry, after all.

"Fine dwarven crafts! Direct from Orzammar!"

The familiar cry drew the king out of his thoughts, his head turning automatically to seek out the owner of that voice - a dwarf he had met first when he was nothing more than a Grey Warden visiting the city for the first time. The dwarf was leaning on his stall, his cry rising above the crowd to draw attention to his wares. It wasn't a surprise to see Demelza inspecting those wares, the Warden-Commander's presence doing more for his business than any amount of yelling might do.

Alistair felt a moment of alarm on seeing his friend, though. Where were the princess and Maria? Dem had been with them when they'd walked away into the crowd; he had expected that she would remain with them. Alarm was beginning to turn to panic as he looked around, too wildly to take in any actual detail of the jostling crowd around him. Then a warm arm inserted itself between him and Amandine, and Callista of Nevarra offered him a beaming smile.

"I am very sorry to relate, my lord, that _dearest_ Delphine has returned to the palace," she informed him, her arm now wrapped firmly about Amandine's waist, looking for all the world like the two of them were close friends. It would have been more convincing if Amandine had not been glaring at her discreetly. "I fear her powder did not survive washing the kohl from her eyes."

"Perhaps she did not enjoy being treated like a child in public," Amandine suggested archly.

Even in his concerned state, Alistair could spot a mistake like that one. His head snapped back just in time to see Callista's jaw clench behind her warm smile. _Not even I would have said that._

"Then perhaps she should not behave like an entitled brat in public," the Nevarran woman answered, every word a warning to the Tantervale lady not to push her luck. "Simple courtesy does not cost anything, does it, Lady Amandine?"

Amandine seemed to have realized her mistake, but alas, not in time to prevent Alistair from hastily clearing his throat to avoid laughing at the hunted look in her eyes. She had, after all, witnessed what Callista had done to Delphine for monopolizing his time. _I wonder what she'd do to Amandine for being so obviously racist,_ he wondered, taking the opportunity to step away from them both. A quick glance to the guard captain ensured that the ladies would be properly guarded, and Alistair was quick to join Demelza at the dwarven stall.

Gorim nodded to him as soon as he reached the stall. "Majesty."

"Master Dwarf whose name I have forgotten, and I will apologise for that later," the king responded, already prodding the elven Warden's shoulder pointedly. "What are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be looking after Maria and the princess? Anything could happen in this crowd!"

"This crowd that you told Eamon was safe enough to take seven ladies into in the first place?" Dem asked with a grin, raising her eyes to her friend as the dwarf snorted with laughter at the king's greeting. "Cool your heels, Longshanks, I know exactly where they are."

"And that is?"

The redheaded elf rolled her eyes at him. "Look directly over my head, _your majesty._ "

Lifting his panic-touched gaze from the familiar contours of the friendliest face he knew, Alistair focused his eyes above her head, and felt relief ripple through him in a warm wave. There was Maria, standing up on a barrel with Princess Felicita supporting her, both of them watching the toymaker at his work with apparently rapt attention. Maria was pointing something out, her small face animated with smiling delight as the princess answered her with a smile of her own, not even objecting when the little girl wrapped her arm about Felicita's neck to continue watching the toy being made.

It was utterly charming to see. They didn't look out of place in the busy marketplace, both garbed in the rather drab brown wools and off-white linens that were the mainstay of the working merchant classes here in the city, and if the toymaker knew he was in the presence of royalty, he had clearly been put at his ease by his captivated audience. As he watched, a lock of black hair fell from the princess' simple braid to curl against her cheek, caught by Maria's little fingers to twist it around her thumb as she absently stroked her new friend's face. No noblewoman he had ever met would have allowed a child - even their own - to be so openly affectionate in a public place, yet Felicita simply laid her head on Maria's shoulder, as though offering _more_ affection rather than chastising the child for it. It was a sight that made his heart ache, though what for, he couldn't yet say. Was he mourning his own lost childhood, or hoping to be a part of the picture presented himself? If he'd realized he was staring, Alistair might have made an attempt to draw his gaze away, but he was as captivated by the warm little tableau they made as they were by the toymaker and his tools.

"If you start dribbling, I'm going to walk away," a voice inserted itself into his consciousness, heavy with rich amusement.

With a start, he jerked back to himself, snapping his gaze away from the princess and the child to meet Demelza's grinning eyes. _I'm not going to blush, I'm not ... Maker, I **am** blushing._ He could feel the heat rising up his neck, raising a hand to rub his fingers over his brow as he cleared his throat.

"What about Lady Ciara and Ceri?" he asked, in what he thought was a laudable attempt to take the attention away from his moment of unthinking admiration.

Dem just let out a quick laugh, jerking her head back toward the princess and Maria. "Did you look _past_ the princess and the pea?"

Well, there was no halting the blush now. She was right, of course - he'd been so enamored of the sight of Maria and the princess cuddling in front of the toymaker, he had completely missed the fact that Ciara was right beside them, talking just as animatedly to Felicita as Maria was. And just beyond them was Lady Ceridwyn ... and Fergus Cousland, looking very fetching in a lady's bonnet that the cheeky Marcher had set on his head. The heat faded from Alistair's face as he grinned at his noble friend's laughter, glad to see a smile on Fergus' face. The man had been through enough, lost enough, to last him a lifetime. Lady Ceri would be very good for him, if they could just convince him to accept that she was not interested in the king at all.

"Oh."

"I see you got away from the Busty Beauty of Orlais," Dem said then, which did nothing to help the blush recede.

"With a little help, yes," Alistair agreed, clearing his throat once again. "Maybe Eamon was right about this being a bad idea."

"Longshanks, Eamon is _never_ right," the elven Warden informed him. "Why don't you go and talk to the ones you _want_ to talk to?"

He gave her something of a terrified grimace in answer. "Because I don't know how to talk to pretty girls?"

Demelza rolled her eyes yet again. "So maybe stop think of them as just pretty girls?" she suggested. "One of them is going to be your wife, you know. Oh, good grief ..."

She caught his elbow as the blood drained from his face. _My wife. I'm standing in the marketplace, and somewhere in this crowd is the woman I'm going to marry._ He hadn't really absorbed that fact until this moment. Perhaps it was unfortunate that he hadn't; with all the bullying from the Landsmeet and his advisors, he had managed to avoid actually putting together the fact of the ladies' arrival and his imminent marriage to one of them. Trust Dem to be the one to make it absolutely plain.

"Alistair, breathe."

There was a cup of something being pushed into his hand - he sipped it, grimacing at the taste of bitter tea as his senses began to return to him. Quite where they had gone for a few moments was anyone's guess. He just had to hope that no one had noticed the king pale and swaying in the middle of the city square.

Demelza was studying him as she took the cup away, the frown on her face pulling at an old scar that decorated her cheekbone.

"Better?" she asked.

He swallowed, taking a deep breath. "Better. Sorry, I -"

"You really didn't think this through, did you?" Her voice was gentle, a tone he'd only ever heard from her when she spoke to someone she loved. It was rather nice to realize that she did love him, albeit in an idiot big brother sort of way.

He sighed, shaking his head. "It isn't that I didn't think about it, I just ..." He trailed off, his gaze slipping toward the merry little group by the toymaker's stall. "I'm just a bastard Warden who got politics by mistake, Dem. What do I possibly have to offer any of them?"

He wasn't expecting the slap his little friend delivered to his cheek for saying that out loud. It was sharp and swift, startling him out of his slump into self-pity with a vaguely wounded protest.

"Don't you ever say that again," Dem growled up at him as he cupped his hand to his stinging cheek. "You're worth ten of any human, noble or otherwise, and if none of these women can see past the crown you have to wear, then they're not worth worrying over. I won't _let_ you marry someone who doesn't want you, Alistair, so pull up your big boy knickers and play nice with the ones that are worth it."

The suggestion of well-oiled steel being drawn behind him dragged his wide eyes from his surprisingly angry friend to find the captain of his guard standing close by, looking decidedly uncomfortable with his sword half-drawn. After all, who wants to be the one responsible for arresting the Hero of Ferelden in public for committing a technical act of treason?

"Sir, the law states -" he began, but Alistair was, for once, there ahead of him.

"- that the indictment of treason is at the king's discretion, and this was not treason," he assured the guard captain, tempted to laugh at the look of supreme relief that crossed the man's face.

He didn't need to look to know that Dem was smiling sweetly at the man, too - a smile that usually meant one wrong move and there would be blood on the ceiling. _And we're outside. She'd have to try pretty hard to get blood on a ceiling from out here._ Not that he didn't think she could do it. Demelza Tabris was, quite frankly, the single most terrifying example of fury harnessed with martial skill when she drew her blades. Alistair would just rather not see her unleash that on his generally well-intentioned guards.

"Thank you, captain, but this was ..." He sighed, glancing at his friend as he let his hand drop from his cheek. "This was a foolish man being reminded that he has more to offer than fancy headgear."

"Exactly," Dem agreed, wrapping a hand about his elbow to give him a shove toward the toymaker's stall. "So go and be your adorably idiotic self for the little girl, and I bet you ten gold you'll get a smile out of the princess for it."

"I always lose bets with you," he whined, ignoring the amusement on the face of the captain as he allowed himself to be nudged toward the little group nearby.

_You are the king of Ferelden. You are not beneath their notice. You can do this. If Dem can sleep with the Divine, you can definitely talk to a pretty princess ... Oh, who are you kidding? If she looks you in the eye, you're going to start burbling like a mabari taking a swim._

Alistair swallowed a groan as he came to a halt a few steps from the calm trio watching the toymaker work. Even his own inner monologue was against him today, it seemed. Not that his inner monologue was _often_ on his side, but this was extreme, even for him. But the thoughts trailed off as he let his eyes focus on the little group, unaware of the watchful curiosity aimed in his direction by several of those passing by.

"... like a sword?" He hadn't caught the beginning of Maria's question, but the sheer enthusiasm in her voice made him smile.

"And who told you that ladies cannot have pretty things that are also weapons?" Felicita answered, her Antivan accent rich with amusement at the assumption so many people made about noblewomen. "I have daggers myself. My father had them made for my eighteenth birthday, set with opals. They are very pretty, Maria."

The little girl stared at her, wide-eyed and almost grinning with delight at this idea. "And, and you can use them and everything?"

The princess laughed, hugging the child fondly for a moment. "Yes, little one, I know how to use them as well," she confirmed. "Everyone should know how to use a weapon. I am sure Ciara does, too."

Alistair's gaze slid to the younger woman as she became the focus of the conversation. Ciara seemed a little unsettled by the attention from her companions, but infinitely less nervous than she had been two nights ago. _Obviously it's me. I make women nervous, or bold._ That was an unsettling thought in itself. He didn't want to have a nervous wife, or a bold wife. He'd quite like to have a wife who was confident enough in herself not to be either.

"Do you, Ciara?" Maria pressed, leaning over toward the young Ferelden woman.

"I do, little lady," the honey-blonde girl told her, seemingly a little embarrassed to admit it. "Not daggers, but I-I know a little of how to use a sword and shield in battle."

"Have you been in a battle?" The little girl from Rivain was instantly awestruck just by the thought of that. "Was it smelly and messy and fun?"

"I-I ..." Ciara stumbled for some response, her gaze flickering from the eagerness on the child's face only to discover the king eavesdropping nearby. "Oh! Y-your ... I mean, my lord, I ..."

As Ciara descended into crimson-hued silence, held where she was only by the gentle touch of the princess' hand on hers, Maria turned fully about on her barrel to offer Alistair a bright smile.

"Mr Kingness, have _you_ been in a battle?" she demanded, lifting her hands toward him in a very recognizable demand.

A demand Alistair found himself acceding to without thinking, lifting her from her perch to settle her comfortably on his hip.

"I have indeed, little lady," he told her, strangely far more at ease with a child than with the women she had chosen to attach herself to. Far more at ease with the sensation of having a child in his arms than he had expected himself to be, too. "I have been in several battles, as a matter of fact, but the one most people talk about was only the second proper battle I ever fought in."

"Is that the one with the dragon and the Warden with ears?"

He blinked, a little surprised to hear Demelza described this way. "Yes, that was the battle with the archdemon," he assured her, hoisting her a little higher on his hip. "What makes you think other Wardens don't have ears?"

Maria shrugged. "The rug on the wall."

"You've lost me there. What rug are we talking about?"

"I believe Maria is referring to the tapestry of the Battle of Denerim, that hangs in the common room you provided for our stay here," Felicita offered from his side. "The Warden-Commander seems to have been depicted as human. Lady Ciara was good enough to explain why."

Despite his urge to drop a curtsy to the first real royal he'd ever actually met, Alistair controlled his knees, issuing only a weary sigh. "Oh, _that_ rug," was his comment. "It was made by the Chantry sisters, here in Denerim. It's awful, isn't it?"

This was given to Maria with a playful grimace that set the little girl to giggling in his arms, sparking a warm grin of his own as Felicita, too, bit down on her own laughter.

"It is a shame that her heritage can so easily be swept away," the princess agreed, and to his surprise, he actually believed she meant it. "But the Chantry is not kind to the elves that shaped its own history, and far less to those that are shaping the future."

"The new Divine will see that it changes," Alistair told her with absolute confidence. "She has _views_ on inequality."

For a moment, Felicita seemed bemused, before comprehension dawned on her face. "Oh, of course! You _know_ Divine Victoria, don't you?" she asked, her expression lighting up with intelligent interest that somehow made her prettier. "I have heard only stories of her - the beautiful bard, the Left Hand of the Divine, the spymaster of the Inquisition. You are fortunate in your friends, my lord."

He let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head. "My greatest good fortune was meeting Dem," he told them. "Without her, I don't want to think of the state the world would be in. I would probably be dead in a ditch somewhere."

"Is she a real hero, Mr. Kingness?" Maria asked hopefully. "Did she really kill a dragon?"

"Yes, little lady, Dem is a real hero," he answered, feeling himself relax as the expected idiocy failed to make itself known on his tongue. Perhaps he should keep Maria close during all his interviews with the ladies; clearly she had a calming influence on his inability to string three words together. "And she's actually killed _two_ dragons. Not as many as the Inquisitor, but she was a little pressed for time when we were traveling to the dragon lairs."

"Two?" The Rivaini girl was in instant awe, her head turning to seek out the diminutive elf they were talking about. "All by herself?"

"Well, no," Alistair admitted, embarrassed to have to make this part clear. "I helped. And Divine Victoria helped, but we only knew her as Leliana back then. And ... well, there was an apostate mage who helped us, but I have no idea where she is now. Maybe you should ask Dem about it, if you'd like to know more. She's better at telling stories than I am."

"Will you teach me how to use a sword?" Maria suddenly burst out, startling him a little with the unexpected enthusiasm for weaponry.

"Uh ... if you stay here in Ferelden, then of course I will," he promised. "Everyone should know how to use a weapon, even if it's just for fun."

"Do you know many people who use weapons for fun?" Felicita asked him then, the dimple in her cheek betraying a smile that had not quite reached her lips but shone in her eyes.

Alistair's mouth went dry as he met her eyes. _Sweet Maker ... how is she **more** beautiful dressed like a merchant in broad daylight?_ But perhaps it wasn't her looks that had quite suddenly stuttered his mind to a halt as it was the relaxed way she smiled at him; the ease with which she had entered his conversation with Maria and how comfortable it felt to just speak with her. He could feel an urge to lick her cheek, just to tease the tip of his tongue into that dimple on the left side and hear her laugh to escape him. _And she hasn't even encouraged me to think about her that way. I'm doomed._

"Uh, ah ... I know an assassin who does," he blurted out. "Although it isn't so much fun as it is work for him, and I'm not sure he would say it is fun, exactly. More like satisfying, I think. He's a little odd."

"He sounds like a Crow." The princess laughed, and Alistair found himself smiling along to the sound, even as his mouth blurted a little more than he really should have been sharing.

"He _is_ a Crow - a very good one, so I hear. Not good enough to kill Dem, though." He absently hoisted Maria a little higher onto his hip. "That's how I met him, actually. He ambushed us, and Dem pounded him into the ground for a while before offering him a job."

Felicita's smile faded, but her expression was not unpleasant. Indeed, it was amazingly pleasant to witness surprised admiration illuminating her features as a fresh smile made itself known.

"You are talking about Zevran Arainai," she said, and it was not a question. "I did not realize that story was true; he is a legend in his own lifetime in Antiva."

Alistair winced, realizing a little late that he might have given away a little too much to the princess of Antiva. "I _had_ heard something about him being rather busy over there," he offered, careful not to mention that Zev visited Denerim fairly regularly to look over the spy network he had created on behalf of the clueless king on the throne.

"He is close to being the only remaining member of House Arainai, so I hear," Felicita agreed in a warm tone, tilting her head at the bewilderment on Maria's face. "What is it, little one?"

"What's a assassin?"

To his delight, Alistair realized that Felicita was uncertain how to answer that question. It was marvelous to see that she wasn't quite as composed at all times as she first appeared. Of course, _he_ didn't know how to answer the question either, so it was probably just as well that Lady Ciara decided to do it for them.

"An assassin is someone who is paid to kill people," the Ferelden girl explained to Maria, offering this from behind the princess. "And the best assassins in the world are the Antivan Crows."

"Are they birds with big swords?" Maria asked, turning her eyes to Felicita.

The princess' smile recovered from her moment of uncertainty. "No, little one, they are men and women," she said. "I think, if anyone ever managed to train a bird to fight with a sword, I would have to hide under the bed until it was stopped."

Maria laughed; Ciara laughed; Alistair laughed with them, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he noted how smoothly Felicita had steered them away from thoughts of death. And he wondered, too, how much she knew of the Crows of her homeland. She was royalty; Zevran had spoken of jobs he had taken to kill off princes and princesses in Antiva. Was Felicita's life in danger, just because of who she had been born to be? Was that why she said she walked armed, why her father had given her daggers? Was that why she was here in the first place - to find a way to separate herself from the dangers of being born royal in Antiva and thus save her own life?

They were sobering thoughts, ones he didn't want to entertain too much. It would be nice to think that perhaps she was here because she wanted to get to know him a little before he decided who he was going to marry, but he wasn't naive enough to think that was the driving force behind any of them accepting the invitation. Still, it was worth a little quiet investigation. Perhaps he could get a raven to Zevran, wherever that blasted elf had disappeared to now, and find out a little more about Princess Felicita.

A small hand tugging at his collar dragged him out of his thoughts, pulling his gaze back to Maria's eager face.

"Mmm?"

"You said we could see the puppets," she reminded him.

"Ah! Of course! Puppets cannot be missed in favor of pretty company and good conversation," he agreed with her, inclining his head to the ladies before glancing about. "Shall we go and find out what story they're planning to tell today?"

Maria nodded excitedly, little fingers gripping the fur on his collar. "Yes please, Mr. Kingness!"

"Then off we go! Dear ladies, do excuse us."

With Maria of Rivain on his hip, the king of Ferelden strode off through the crowd, the sobering thoughts that had filtered through his mind forgotten at the prospect of a puppet show with someone who seemed more than happy to share in his indulgence for such things. All right, so she was ten years old; he definitely couldn't _marry_ her. But he hoped she would be allowed to stay in Ferelden. He could stomach marrying any of the ladies, if he could enjoy Maria's company. Maybe he should thank that Grand Cleric in Dairsmuid for inadvertently sending him someone he could be childish with, without shame.

And maybe keeping Maria close would offer more opportunities to discover a little more about the brides he was supposed to be vetting ... and more about _one_ in particular.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Demelza Tabris, Hero of Ferelden, comes to a few interesting conclusions.

"Oh! For a sight of that bright flame, green glowing aloft, raised high to cast down the dark of Dread Corypheus ..."

 _Andraste's knickers, this is tedious._ An apparently world-renowned theater troupe had been invited to Denerim palace from Orlais by Arl Eamon, to provide entertainment for the king and his guests on the sixth day of the Great Bride Hunt, as the commons were beginning to call it. And they were _dreadful._ Demelza Tabris would be the first to admit that she knew next to nothing about high culture, but three hours of fulsome prose and exaggerated gesticulations was more than enough to bore her close to tears. What made it worse was that there was still another hour of it to endure.

"You know," said a cheeky voice by her ear, "if you yawn wide enough, you might actually get them to speed it up a bit."

Dem bit down on a wider grin, glancing to her left, where Ceridwyn of Kirkwall was lounging in her own seat. The red-haired Marcher was capable of looking comfortable in any position, any chair, but even she was looking ever so slightly pained with each new line of tortured artistry displayed by this so-called professional acting troupe. Another voice inserted itself from behind them as Shianni leaned forward, grateful to do something other than attempt to look interested as Orlesian humans butchered recent history for their supposed entertainment.

"We could get everyone yawning if we did it loud and wide enough," the elven Bann suggested. "Well, everyone who isn't already asleep."

"You two are going to get me in trouble," Dem pointed out in amusement, but she wasn't exactly concerned about that. Eamon didn't dare speak against her, and none of the other voices on Alistair's council minded when she spoke her mind or offended foreigners.

"Live dangerously," Ceri murmured through her grin.

"Last time I did that, a darkspawn decided to have a conversation with me," the Warden reminded them, her own grin widening as Shianni snickered by her ear. "Sadly, I sense no darkspawn nearby."

"Shame," was Ceri's murmured response. "That'd be a good way to thin the herd."

"It's only been a week," Shianni muttered back to her. "Trust me, it's getting thinner all by itself."

Dem flicked a glance back at her cousin, sharing a significant look with the Bann of the Alienage in amusement. She knew exactly what Shianni was talking about, even if Ceri did not. There _were_ advantages to being elves in the Royal Palace - namely that the majority of the staff were also elves, and they loved to gossip. There were some fascinating tidbits coming from the women assigned to serve the visiting ladies, such as ... Delphine was receiving daily messages from Isolde Guerrin; Rosamunde had taken to locking her bedchamber door against even the staff between dusk and dawn; Amandine kept trying to hold awkward conversations with them; Ciara was so nervous of being in the palace at all that she kept breaking things. Best of all, that factions were forming among the group. Delphine was a law unto herself, but trying to make friends of the others; Amandine kept herself to herself almost religiously; somewhat surprisingly, Leona and Callista had been drawn into the little group that Princess Felicita had gathered about herself. Rosamunde had just enough sense to be friendly, but not enough sense to make it real.

Gossip was a wonderful thing, and all this gossip was being channeled toward Shianni, who naturally shared it with her cousin. They both had a vested interest in helping Alistair choose a wife who wouldn't need to be educated on how to behave around elves, for a start. And that gossip was definitely informing Demelza's behavior around the ladies.

It was no surprise that Isolde was championing Delphine, now that her preferred Orlesian candidate had removed herself not only from the race but from the country. Whatever advice she was giving, it was obviously not working, so Dem saw no reason to disrupt that little alliance. Amandine's awkwardness around elves was borne out by the Tantervale lady's attempts to converse with Demelza herself, and despite her dislike of anyone who thought themselves better than her because of an accident of birth, Dem could see the inkling of improvement in the woman. At least that Marcher could identify her mistakes and try to rectify them. It seemed a shame to tell her that her effort came too late to repair the damage - Alistair was stubborn about changing his mind. No, the surprise in the gossip was that the princess had managed to gather the most disparate of the visitors into a friendly sort of alliance. Whatever else she was, Felicita was clearly a masterful diplomat, to be able to convince the bold Callista, the religious Leona, and the clearly terrified Ciara to spend time in each other's company for the sheer pleasure of having female friends close by. It wasn't a surprise to note that Ceri had winkled her way into that group, too. Dem was almost jealous of the obvious bonds of friendship between the six women; she'd never had that except with Shianni, Leliana, and Morrigan, and her circumstances prevented her keeping that contact as close as she would like.

"Already a pretty thin bunch to choose from, if you ask me," Ceri was muttering to Shianni, drawing Dem's attention back from her own thoughts.

She cast a curious glance toward the Kirkwall Marcher. That wasn't a sentiment she had expected to hear from anyone. Neither had Shianni, by the sound of things.

"You're obviously not interested, so take a guess," Shianni challenged Ceri, settling her arms comfortably on the back of Dem's chair. "Who do _you_ think is going to be the queen?"

Ceri flashed the elven redheads a wicked grin. "I'm not putting money on it," she warned.

Shianni snorted with laughter. "Dem did."

"Dem is feeling pretty confident in her decision," Demelza pointed out with a grin of her own. She'd decided on the first night which of the ladies was most suitable - her first impression was rarely wrong, though she often adjusted it mildly at later acquaintance.

Ceri glanced between them cheerfully. "I'm not going to cut it down to one," she informed the pair. "But if I put money on it, mine would go on the princess or Ciara."

"Not Callista?" Dem queried. After all, the Nevarran woman was showing less interest in showing off her figure and more in being a well-rounded individual since that first night.

Ceri shook her head. "She's not as interested in all this as she seems to be," she said mysteriously.

"Neither's the princess," Shianni pointed out.

"No, but Felicita's here with an open mind," the Marcher reminded them. "Callie's just here."

"What do you know that we don't?" Dem asked her suspiciously.

Ceri's grin widened for the briefest of moments. "Something told to me in confidence."

Shianni's disgusted noise told them both what she thought of that. But this little tidbit caught Dem's attention, turning her eyes across the gathering of quietly bored nobles to seek out Callista of Nevarra, wherever she might be. To her surprise, she found Callista sitting beside Ciara, both women's heads bowed together, whispering to one another as though they were old friends. As she watched, Ciara blushed, her head rising to flicker a glance toward the state chairs where Alistair sat before ducking once again as Callista visibly chuckled under her breath and patted the girl's hand. _If nothing else, she'll help with those nerves,_ Dem thought to herself, inwardly approving of that little friendship. Amaranthine needed a bolder set of nobles who knew how to work as a team; Ciara could easily learn those skills here, if she was exposed to the right people.

And speaking of the right people ... Dem let her gaze scan over the group again, coming to rest on a pair of ladies directly in front of her. The princess herself, who had been doing so well in the Warden's estimation right up until the point where she had made an obvious effort to be seated next to Teryna Tight-Knickers Mac Tir. Anora was not one of Dem's favorite people, though this had more to do with the woman's inability to openly state that her father selling the alienage into slavery had been a bad thing than any defect of her personality. The fact that Felicita had made a point of seeking out Anora's company was a little alarming. Still ...

Dem relaxed, her ears subtly turning to tune out the muttered conversation between Shianni and Ceri and focus in on the quieter suggestion of conversation between princess and teryna. It never hurt to stay informed, after all.

"... why the arl has such influence over the king?" Felicita was asking, her accent providing little difficulty to decipher. Two years of close proximity to Zevran Arainai did not wear off quickly.

"It was Eamon who forced him onto the throne, essentially," Anora answered her, though Dem was quietly pleased to note that there was little actual heat in the comment. The phrasing was interesting, though. "And forced many people who would have given him better advice out of the palace shortly afterward. He had a hand in raising Alistair; there is a certain amount of pseudo-filial loyalty there."

"Truly?" Felicita sounded surprised. "But the king does not seem comfortable in his presence."

"That doesn't surprise me," was Anora's soft reply. "Eamon does not believe in persuasive argument or reasoned diplomacy. He believes in stating his opinion repeatedly at ever-increasing volume, until his way is accepted just to make him shut up. There was a reason why Cailan didn't have him at court."

"I think I know the type," the princess murmured. "And what of the council ... does the arl dominate them, too?"

On hearing this enquiry, Dem adjusted her position slightly, appearing to give Ceri and Shianni a greater share of her attention, but actually angling her ear further toward the two high-born ladies in front of her. What _was_ Anora's opinion of the council?

Scarce, as it turned out.

"I cannot presume to know that, your highness," the teryna was saying. "I do not have a seat on the council."

"But I had thought ..." Felicita seemed confused. "Forgive me, but I had assumed that, as one of the two highest ranked nobles in the kingdom, you _would_ have a guaranteed seat on the king's council."

Anora seemed to grow a little awkward at this. Well, insofar as a stiff back and a pair of perfectly braided buns could look awkward from this angle, anyway.

"I initially had a seat on Alistair's council, yes," she said carefully. "But public opinion in the capital was very much against my father in the aftermath of the Blight, and with such an untried king newly on the throne, certain people felt emboldened to speak out against me who might not otherwise have done so. Arl Eamon felt that my presence was unnecessary; much of my advice ran contrary to his own, and ... well, the king relied on him a great deal in those early days, as he naturally would. I chose to resign my place rather than be publicly forced out."

Dem's brow furrowed. She hadn't known about this; she doubted Alistair knew the full extent of it himself. He had only told her of Anora's resignation at the time, but she knew her friend well enough to know that if he had suspected Eamon's hand in the matter, he would have investigated it further. And though Dem didn't _like_ Anora, she respected the teryna. Anora had all but ruled Ferelden single-handed during her tenure as Cailan's queen - that was no secret. Her advice would have been invaluable to a brand new king who didn't know what he was doing. _  
_

_So Eamon put pressure on Anora to push her out, did he? No wonder he thinks his voice is the only one that matters here._ Teagan was on the council, but he wouldn't speak against his brother openly. Fergus, too, had a seat, but his attention was torn between Highever and the capital, and his knowledge of the political workings here in Denerim was unlikely to be very sophisticated. Those who would speak against Eamon had no doubt been intimidated in any number of ways - intimidated or bought off. Even without the revenue of Redcliffe to rely on, the elder Guerrin was a wealthy man, thanks to his Orlesian wife's family. Dem didn't blame Shianni for not pushing against Eamon, either; one lone elf in a room full of human nobles was never going to make much headway without some support. Most of the council were probably still of the opinion that anything Shianni said was worthless, anyway. Integration only went so far - it would be years before elves were acknowledged to have minds of their own, no matter how eager Alistair was to correct this.

With these thoughts in mind, the elven Warden's eyes drifted toward the arl himself, even as Anora's next words burned themselves into her ears.

"I had my doubts at the beginning of Alistair's reign," the teryna confessed softly to the Antivan princess at her side. "He was very green, and he did not actually want the throne. But he _cares_ , and the people can feel it. His instincts are, for the most part, right for the situation. It is poor advice that has lead to most of his mistakes, I am sure."

 _Poor advice, hmm?_ Demelza's gaze focused on Eamon and his wife, seated on the other side of the semi-circle of nobles pretending to watch the awful theatrics being performed for them. Isolde was giggling behind her hand with Lady Delphine, probably poking fun at the other prospective brides, but Eamon ... He was looking more stern than usual, and was that a nervous twitch in his fingers? As she watched, he shifted position once, twice, his eyes flickering toward Anora. _No ... not Anora._ He was glancing uncomfortably at Rosamunde of Gwaren, sitting close on the teryna's other side. _Now what is that about,_ the Warden wondered. _What is it about Rosamunde that makes Eamon nervous?_

Barely paying attention to Shianni and Ceri's continued speculation on the competition, Dem's focus sharpened on Rosamunde. One of the older ladies, certainly, though hardly past the bloom of her youth, in some circles Rosamunde's presence here was being touted as her last chance to land a good marriage. It wasn't difficult to see why she'd had trouble finding a man prepared to take her on thus far; quite apart from her militantly unpopular opinions, she was an arrogant sort of person who didn't seem to be able to summon the energy to make herself attractive to the man she was supposed to be trying to attract. Indeed, Alistair had already told Dem that he was more than a little intimidated by Rosamunde. Of course, women in general were intimidating to Alistair, but this seemed to be a special case. As far as Demelza could tell, the lady from Gwaren had spent barely more than a few minutes at a time in Alistair's company - just long enough to cement his initial impression of her as not at all a match for him - yet the servant assigned to her care had passed to Shianni that Rosamunde was already crowing in private about her apparently imminent accession to the throne, using threats of changes in the palace to get her own way among the staff.

Dem's eyes flickered back to Eamon. So what did that have to do with the woman's mere presence making the arl nervous, she wondered. Unless ... It was obvious once she considered it. _She's got something on him. Something he doesn't want becoming common knowledge._ That something might even have been provided by Anora, though Dem doubted the teryna would sink so low as to give one of the ladies such an underhanded advantage over the others. But whatever it was, it seemed as though Rosamunde thought Eamon had the influence to guarantee a crown on her head. So why was the Tevinter ambassador's secretary making doe eyes at her from across the hall? Dem would have paid good money for a view of Rosamunde's answering gaze. Was it coy and knowing, or annoyed, or uncertain? Knowing the woman's reaction to such an open display of lascivious interest would have raised some speculation while putting the rest to bed. As it was, her back was turned to Dem and so, it would have to remain a mystery.

"Now that is just adorable ..."

Ceri's elbow nudged painfully into the Warden's side as she hissed her exclamation, gesturing toward the chairs of state, set out for Alistair and his as-yet-undetermined queen-to-be. Both chairs had been set out, no doubt to keep the point of this month fresh in the minds of the women invited to take part by keeping one conspicuously empty, but Alistair had put paid to that idea by inserting little Maria into the queen's chair as soon as they'd arrived. Now the little girl was curled up in that chair, fast asleep, apparently bored to tears by the theatrical display going on in front of her. Ceri had drawn attention to the fact that the king had removed the cushion from his own back to very carefully maneuver it underneath Maria's lolling head, protecting her from the hard edge of the wooden arm she had chosen to rest it on.

"He's so good with her," Ceri murmured, all three redheads watching as Alistair gently stroked Maria's hair for a moment before turning his attention back toward Leona, who was sat beside him.

Technically, today was Leona's one-on-one day with the king, but Eamon had arranged this supposed entertainment and refused to hear of Alistair missing it. In a way, that was a good thing - as much as Demelza liked Leona, the Starkhaven girl had religion in a big way. She didn't have the temperament to be a wife, much less a queen. In fact, the Chantry would probably benefit from having a sister within its ranks who believed so fiercely. Still, it meant that Alistair was having a reasonably easy-going day in his Bride Hunt. The two previous one-on-one days had been a little uncomfortable for him, for two very different reasons.

Despite his best efforts to narrow down his choices this early in the game, he was obliged to spend at least one day with each of the ladies; an obligation Dem actually agreed with. Ferelden was not so blessed with friends that they could afford to offend other, more powerful nations just because the king had already decided he didn't want to marry their representatives. As such, he had thus far spent three of the six days since the ladies' arrival in the company of just one at a time - Callista, Amandine, and Leona. Callista made him uncomfortable just by existing, it seemed; she was a bright, bold sort of woman, very proud of her own figure and possessed of the confidence to show it off to best effect. She was also intelligent, and a good conversationalist, and once Alistair had stopped having to tear his eyes away from her cleavage, he had enjoyed her company. Amandine had been more difficult, by the sound of things; her already stated opinions on races and classes mingling had set Alistair's opinion against her, but it seemed as though she had recognized the mistake she had made and had spent the majority of her day with him showing eager interest in everything he had to say on the subject. Dem would find out later how the day with Leona was going, but she could make a guess. Even before the actors had started up, Alistair had been ever so slightly glazed over. Now he looked as though he might start randomly screaming just to liven things up a little.

Abruptly, she became aware that something was expected of her, blinking out of her thoughts to find both Shianni and Ceri looking at her expectantly.

"Mm?"

"Ceri wants to know why he never got married before," Shianni repeated with a roll of her eyes. "Figure you'd be the one to know, cousin."

 _Now there's a question ..._ A question to which Dem had a horrible feeling she knew the answer.

"He's been busy." She shrugged, but this wasn't enough for the pair hanging on her every word. Despite it all, she couldn't help a faint smirk at the eager interest on their faces. "Honestly, anyone would think _you_ two wanted to marry him ..."

The look on Shianni's face was priceless, sending Dem off into poorly concealed snorts of laughter at the sight of her cousin attempting to come up with a fair reason why she would never even consider marrying a _shem_ , much less a king one. She knew Shianni didn't wholly disapprove of Alistair as much as she did everyone else who happened to be human, but it was hilarious even considering the possibility of her cousin wanting to _marry_ him.

Ceri, on the other hand, just laughed, rolling her eyes. "Hey, if I thought I had a chance, I'd be in it to win it," she admitted cheerfully. "I just got lucky to have a viscount who knows him a little and figures I'd be too much for him. Highever's my prize."

"You do _like_ Fergus, though, don't you?" Dem asked, mildly concerned for a moment. Did human women _really_ go out of their way just to marry for advantage over affection or stability?

Ceri's smile softened, for a moment almost offering a shy glance as her gaze flickered over to the teryn. "I didn't think I would," she said, her tone low enough that only the elves with her could hear clearly. "But I do like him. He's stern and sad, but he's funny and kind, and he's good company. I think I could make him happy, and I kind of _want_ to make him happy, too."

 _That's not too bad._ Dem felt herself smile approvingly, glad her initial assessment of the Kirkwall Marcher hadn't been too wrong. Of course she was here for an advantage, but actually _liking_ the man she was hoping to hook with her considerable charms was a good thing. For a moment, though, Dem's smile faded. It hadn't been like that when marriage had been waved in front of _her_. Nelaros had been fine, she supposed; a sweet-tempered prospective bridegroom, who was brave enough to venture into the home of an arl he knew next to nothing of to try and rescue his bride before something dreadful happened to her. She hadn't _wanted_ to get married, but she would have borne it, for her father's sake. Nelaros had not deserved to die like that.

Shianni's hand touched her shoulder. "Like dogs," she murmured, and Dem realized her cousin had guessed where her thoughts had gone.

She reached up, squeezing the hand that rested on her shoulder. "Like dogs, Shianni," she promised. Oh, yes. They had all died horribly for what they had done that day.

Ceri looked quizzical, but didn't press for details, correctly assuming that this particular little exchange was none of her business. Instead, she brought the subject back to Alistair, leaning in to speak just loud enough for the princess in front of them to hear her.

"So ..." she said enticingly. "Why _hasn't_ he got married until now?"

The princess stiffened just a little, her head turning ever so slightly to catch the answer. Dem felt herself laugh quietly. _So she's not as indifferent as she first seems. Good to know._ But it didn't look as though Ceri was going to be put off again. The elven Warden sighed, rolling her eyes.

"I think he's afraid," she confessed, quiet but not quiet enough to exclude the Antivan princess from her comment on the king. "He has a pretty low opinion of himself, despite everything he's done over the years, and ... Well, the first woman he thought he might feel that way for fell in love with someone else right in front of him. That probably set him back a bit."

"Who was that?" Ceri asked, curious intrigue written all over her face.

"Me," Dem admitted with a rueful smile. "Don't get me wrong, I love him like a brother, but I don't lean that way and I didn't know how to tell him. I didn't even know he thought of me like that until Leliana pointed it out. I'm pretty sure he doesn't think of me as anything but a friend these days, but first love and all ..."

"That's ... that's a big blow," Ceri mused, glancing at Felicita's back with a very faint smirk. "Whoever he chooses had better appreciate him. He's not just a crown."

Shianni snorted with laughter behind them. "Maybe if he ever manages to talk to any of you without blushing, he'll find one."

"Any of _them_ ," Ceri corrected her with a grin. "I'm taken."

"Already?"

Dem's grin widened at the wicked little shrug Ceri sent her way, half an eye on the way Felicita removed her attention from their conversation to restart her own with Anora. _Yes, you think on that, your highness,_ she thought to herself. _My friend deserves more than some crown-grabbing vehicle with nothing but tits and teeth to recommend her. And I'll make sure he gets it._

"He'll work it out eventually," the Marcher said with absolute confidence. She turned a brilliant smile onto Fergus Cousland, sat on the other side of the hall. The teryn of Highever blinked, glanced quickly about as though making sure no one else was watching, and answered her smile with a smaller quirk of his own lips. Ceri's sigh was triumphant. "He's mine."

Demelza chuckled, turning her eyes back to the terrible acting feeling oddly reassured by that strange conversation. Her own shortlist of those suitable for Alistair was rapidly shrinking, not that it had been long in the first place. _Oh, who am I kidding? Only one of them has any real chance of making him happy._ And she hadn't seen them together more than twice in a week. But that was all right. With everything she had concocted with the king to winnow out the dead wood ... there was time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Princess Felicita gets a glimpse of the world she might want to be a part of.

Alistair Theirin was not simply a mouthpiece for his government. No, he was a true king who worked for his people and his land, a great part of each day devoted to council meetings and decisions that would shape Ferelden in the days and months to come. That, in itself, made this month of queen-vetting somewhat unusual, in Felicita's mind. How was he managing it, she wondered. Was he working long hours into the night to make up for the time taken from his usual working hours to entertain visiting dignitaries? Or had the council moved to lessen his workload for this short time only, to allow him at least a _chance_ of discovering some hidden gem among the ladies vying for his attention?

The concept of a working monarchy was one she had only a passing acquaintance with, personally. In Antiva, the royal family was very much constitutional, their role in ruling diminished by the power of the merchant princes, many of whom by now had married into the royal blood and could be said to be just as much royal as the king himself. She knew that her father's seal and signature was necessary to pass certain edicts, to confirm certain amendments to laws, but King Fulgeno's role was never to have a hand in the _forming_ of those laws and edicts. He was little more than a figurehead, the monarchy in Antiva maintained only because their line remaining unbroken for more than two thousand years was a point of pride for the merchant princes who actually ruled the land. 

Thus, Felicita was fascinated when an invitation was issued to the ladies to witness the Petitioners Court, though she was one of only a handful who accepted that invitation. Leona, of course, retired to the chapel in the palace for the morning; Callista had spirited Ciara away to explore the palace more fully together. Delphine was in bed, apparently with a sick headache, though the uncharitable might put that down to the sheer amount of elderberry wine she had imbibed the night before. Amandine was there, of course, never one to place herself out of the king's sight unless it was absolutely necessary, and perhaps she truly was interested in seeing how this king administered the law of his land. Ceri had inserted herself into Fergus Cousland's plan to run training drills for the palace guard, something he was no doubt both embarrassed and delighted by. Rosamunde's attendance was something of a surprise - the haughty Fereldan woman tended to avoid the overtly Fereldan activities, claiming she had no need to be taught how her own country worked.

And, of course, today was Lady Maria's specified day to spend with the king. The little girl had outright refused to sit with Alistair while he performed his duties, mollified with the promise of sword fighting and horse-riding when the work was done, and instead elected to remain with Felicita where she had found a seat in the gallery of the Landsmeet Hall. She was full of questions about what was happening, questions Felicita could not answer herself, but as luck would have it, Teryna Anora Mac Tir had requested to sit with them. The teryna of Gwaren knew exactly what was going on, and she was more than happy to explain to both Rivaini and Antivan what they were witnessing.

The Landsmeet Hall was exceptionally full, the doors to the palace opened to allow anyone of any rank to enter and watch the proceedings of the court. While the nobles were gathered on the galleries that loomed above the main floor, merchants and commoners, humans and even a few elves filled the space below, though it seemed to Felicita that most were more interested in getting a personal look at their king, and at the ladies from whom he would soon be choosing a queen for them all. Still, it was an encouraging display of Alistair's integration policy being put into practice, however much the Fereldan nobility might object to it. There was a certain charm to the way the king had a tendency to pause between judgments to send a wink in the direction of a child who caught his attention, or to acknowledge someone from the lower ranks of society whom he seemed to have met at some point. At such times, it was easy to recall that he had spent more than a year trailing all over the country, meeting all sorts of people, almost all of whom he remembered. He was so at ease under the eyes of the lower ranks - far more so than he was under the sole eyes of the nobility, that was clear. No wonder his people loved him so dearly.

"Does the king make all his decisions right now?" Maria asked, watching a smiling young woman reunited with a mother whose husband had attempted to keep them apart through improper use of the law. Alistair had overturned that decision without needing much time to consider it.

Anora smiled at the little girl, fondly squeezing her hand. 

"No, my lady," she told them both, for Felicita was just as interested in the answer as her small companion. "There are petitions made for the king's judgment every day, and I am sure he gets through at least a few of them whenever he sits at his desk. The Petitioners Court is held once a month, for the passing of those judgments that the king feels need to be witnessed by the people. He has already seen all the evidence, taken all the advice, and made his decision before the case is ever presented here."

"How do you know?" Maria pressed.

Felicita watched Anora's smile falter, just for a moment, recalling a little too late to warn Maria that this woman had once been Queen of Ferelden herself.

"Because that is how it was done when _I_ was queen, Maria," the blonde lady assured her. "My husband was King Alistair's elder brother, King Cailan, and I was very involved in the running of the country."

Maria's mouth dropped open in amazement. "You were a _queen?"_

"She was the best queen Ferelden has ever had," Rosamunde interjected from Anora's left. "Ousted by fools afraid of their own shadow."

"Hush, Rosamunde," Anora chided with a frown. "What is done is done, and it has come to be for the best."

"Your father was -"

"My father was a traitor," the teryna said, her expression stern, but her voice sad. "That is all there is to it."

"When I am queen, I will restore you to a position of honor and power," Rosamunde told her, seeming to forget that she was not the ranking lady in their little group. Not yet, anyway. "Regardless of the king's wishes."

"Then you will be a very poor queen." Anora's glance brooked no further discussion on the matter. "Be quiet and learn a little humility, Rosamunde. You are not queen yet."

Even Maria felt the awkwardness in that moment, looking worriedly up at Felicita as Rosamunde fumed in silence. It appeared as though the influential connection the Fereldan woman had been counting on did not actually consider her to be a good candidate for the role she was aiming for. Felicita waited until Rosamunde was looking away before smiling at Maria, though. She didn't want to be drawn into some petty feud over a misapprehension of being seen to laugh at the candidate from Gwaren.

"I am curious, Lady Mac Tir," Felicita murmured, dark eyes watching the movement below as a fresh case was brought before the king. "When you wore the crown, were both you and the king present for this Petitioners Court?"

Anora seemed to relax a little. She was not comfortable at court, clearly, but Felicita found her rather good company, and a gold mine of information for someone unfamiliar with the workings of ruling politics and government.

"The tradition is that the king should preside over the Petitioners Court," she explained quietly. "But Cailan was often away on other matters, and as queen, I had the authority to act in his stead. I understand that Alistair would like to involve his queen in the workings of the country, however, so it is entirely possible that after his marriage there will be _two_ crowns on the dais."

"So whomever is asked to take that position, they will have a great deal to learn before Summerday," Felicita mused, her eyes following the advance of a clearly pregnant woman and her male companion toward the dais, followed by an armored templar.

"The new queen will have advisors and tutors," Anora predicted confidently. "As the king does himself. It is not isolated power, and very rare that the monarch must come to a decision entirely alone."

"But the advice must be sound for the decision to be fair," Felicita pointed out, biting back any further comment as Maria shushed her, eager to hear what was happening on the floor below.

Surprisingly, it was the Warden-Commander herself who stood between the two supplicants to the throne. Felicita felt herself begin to smile at the way the king straightened imperceptibly as his best friend bowed to him. That was a friendship she could appreciate, even from a distance; their shared experiences had made the bond between human king and elven Warden stronger than dwarf-forged steel.

"Your majesty," Demelza declared, her voice clear even amid the flurry of speculation crossing the crowded hall. "As Arlessa of Amaranthine, I submit this case for your judgment, as it was submitted to me. The mages Fehris and Amara, both of the College of Magi, have accused Ser Kirdan of the Order of Templars of harassment and threatening behavior. I, and my people, have examined the evidence provided on both sides, and here I present to you the bare bones of the case. Ser Kirdan wishes to place Amara under watch until her child is born, at which point he will remove the child from her care according to Chantry law. He has stated under oath that he will at no point further harass Amara or Fehris once this is accomplished. Fehris and Amara state that the Chantry laws governing the children of Circle mages does not apply in this case, as they are mages of College of Magi and not under Circle or Chantry jurisdiction. Ser Kirdan does not recognize the College of Magi as a body separate from the Chantry. He has been witnessed making threats against the continued safety and well-being of both Fehris and Amara, should they not conform to his demand. Fehris has also been witnessed making threats against Ser Kirdan's continued health should he not desist. I did not feel this was a case I could judge with due authority, and so, have submitted it before your majesty."

Even from here, Felicita could see the slight shake in Demelza's hands as she stepped back. Addressing the crown, the court, and the commons all at once was daunting enough for a human noble; she could not imagine how nerve-wracking it must be for a former elf of Denerim's alienage. But it had been presented well, albeit far more formally than she was used to hearing the elven Warden speak.

"Cleverly done," Anora murmured, catching the princess' attention with her quiet approval. The teryna met her glance briefly. "To have the Hero of Ferelden present such a difficult case in person. She's clearly been coached, but her presentation is impartial at first view. The king, however, is a close friend, and they will have discussed it."

"What would _you_ do?" Felicita asked her softly, as below them the mages presented their view to the king.

Anora frowned thoughtfully. "As I say, it is difficult," she mused. "If I had such a case before me, I would seek to hand it to others better suited to judge it, but if a judgment was required of me ... It is a delicate peace, between the templars and the mages, no matter which institution they belong to. A judgment on either side could reignite old conflicts, and Alistair has already shown his preference for dealing generously with mages."

So what _was_ the right response, Felicita wondered to herself, only vaguely paying attention as Ser Kirdan began the defense of his own position. She tried to imagine herself in Alistair's position - the king of a country that was popularly considered weak by its neighbors but not yet worth the trouble conquering yet again; whose progressive social policies were not at all in keeping with the rest of Thedas, yet whose known associates were among the most powerful or feared across the lands; who had dealt fairly with the mage rebellion until they forced his hand, and who had once trained as a templar. The more she considered it, the more she realized that Anora's initial assessment was good advice - this was not a judgment he could make with any confidence of his order being upheld by either side. The true judgment was in _who_ he would pass the case to; might he pass it directly to the Divine herself?

She straightened as the king began to speak, her interest piqued even more now that she had her first true taste of what it was to _be_ a ruling monarch. Alistair sat upright on his throne, far more confident in this than he seemed in other situations.

"Fehris, Amara. Ser Kirdan." He inclined his head to all three. "If I were to lay a judgment upon you, would you swear by Andraste and the Maker to uphold my words and live by them?"

The hesitation of all three spoke volumes, but it was Ser Kirdan who spoke.

"With respect, your majesty, yours is a secular authority," he said, as deferential as he could be in the circumstances. "As a templar, I answer only to the Chantry and the Maker Himself. I cannot swear to abide by your judgment if I deem it wrongful under Chantry law."

Alistair nodded, the golden crown on his head catching the light that spilled through the stained glass portrait of Andraste at his back. "Thank you for your honesty, Ser Kirdan."

There was a pause, and for a moment, Felicita wondered why there should be one. If, as Anora said, the decision had been made before this was ever played out for the people crowded into the hall to witness, surely there was no need to wait and consider. But the answer was an easy one to find. The king must be seen to be just and fair. It was a show, the pacing prepared long ahead of the performance, something she understood well from her own experience. Of course he must appear to be considering his options. A decision seen as hasty would not be respected, and would certainly not carry tales of his just rule beyond the city.

"It seems that any judgment I might make here and now will not hold," the king declared, glancing between the two sides of the argument before him. "And rightly so. I do not have ultimate authority over mages or templars, except to the point of preventing violence within my borders. Therefore you will journey, under escort, to Skyhold, and present your case to the Inquisition, where both the heads of the College of Magi and the newly reformed Seekers of Truth will be able to determine the best course of action. Should you fail to abide by their ruling, I do not doubt that the Divine herself will take a hand in ensuring a peaceful resolution."

Fehris frowned, half-a-step toward the throne before he pulled himself up. "Your majesty's choice is just, but ..." He gestured toward his wife. "Amara is entering her eighth month. Such a journey is too risky for her, and though the custom is for expectant mothers to live under the protection of the Chantry until such time as their husbands may return for them, I do not feel that protection will extend to allowing her to keep our child."

Perhaps surprisingly, Ser Kirdan spoke in agreement. "This much is true, your majesty," the templar admitted. "My actions have been spurred by Chantry law. If born while under Chantry protection, the babe will be taken from her, and I fear worse will come of that."

"Why does the Chantry want her baby?" Maria whispered curiously.

Anxious not to miss Alistair's judgment on this aspect, Felicita nonetheless bent her head to answer. After all, Maria was a victim of the same policy, albeit an unknowing one.

"When the mages were all in the Circle, they were ruled by the Chantry," she explained quietly. "The Chantry do not believe it is appropriate for a mage to be allowed to raise their own child, and it was written into Chantry law that any mage who gave birth would be given the care they needed to recover while their child was placed in a Chantry orphanage, or with a responsible family. There are a great many people out there who never knew their parents because of that law."

"Oh." Maria nodded, frowning. "That's not fair."

"No, little one, it isn't," Felicita agreed. "That is why this is very important."

"Amara will remain in her home here in Denerim, under the protection of the crown," Alistair was announcing from the throne. "Any attempt to remove her or her child from Ferelden's care before a verdict is agreed to by the Inquisition will result in immediate sanctions against the templars and the Chantry, as mandated by the precedent already laid out within Andraste's laws and confirmed by previous Divines. Grand Cleric Perpetua, do you agree?"

Felicita's head turned sharply to the head of the Chantry within Ferelden's borders, and found a frown aimed back at the king from a lined face. The Grand Cleric of Ferelden had little choice but to agree to the king's terms, offered in such a public way, and Felicita felt her mouth relax into a smile. She could appreciate the skill with which King Alistair had maneuvered the Chantry into a corner. To deny his request so publicly would be to declare that _anyone's_ child could be stolen by the Chantry without warning or reason, regardless of their magical ability. The last thing the Chantry needed was to be labeled as the abductors of children, especially after the last decade of very public mistakes. As she watched, Grand Cleric Perpetua sighed, rising to incline her head to the king.

"It shall be as you say, your majesty," she agreed, rather graciously for someone who didn't have any choice but to obey. "The Chantry will punish severely any among her ranks who attempt to circumvent the application of both your justice, and the verdict handed down by the Inquisition."

"Thank you, Grand Cleric." Alistair seemed a little relieved not to have been argued with. His eyes returned to the trio standing before him. "Ser Kirdan, Fehris? What say you?"

This time, it was the mage who spoke first.

"Thank you, your majesty," Fehris said, bowing to the king. "I will gladly travel to Skyhold to see this matter resolved, secure in the knowledge that my wife and child are safe in your care."

Ser Kirdan scowled, but also bowed. "As you say, your majesty."

"Excellent!" Alistair rose from his throne with a bounce. "My guard captain will discuss the travel arrangements with you both. I declare this session of the Petitioners Court ended! And now, if you will all excuse me ..." He flashed a wide grin that found an echo in many of the faces of the commons looking up at him. "I have a date with a beautiful dark-eyed visitor from the north-east."

A ripple of laughter filled the hall as the king hooked his crown off his head and headed down the steps from the dais to disappear through one of the side doors. Curious eyes turned toward the ladies who were sitting in the gallery, no doubt trying to identify which of the unfamiliar visitors the king could have been referring to. Had he meant Lady Amandine, perhaps; or was he referring to the princess herself? Rosamunde's eyes were blue and bright, that ruled her out.

As the speculation rose, Felicita found herself laughing as she stood, holding out her hand to Maria as the little girl jumped down from her seat. No wonder the people loved their king so much, she reflected. He was as human with them as he could get away with being. It was ... well, it was strangely endearing.

"Please excuse us, your ladyship," she apologized to Anora, who was waiting patiently for them to pass. "I must deliver the king's dark-eyed visitor to his care for the day."

Rosamunde scowled, but Anora actually let out a bright laugh of her own, gently tweaking Maria's nose as the little girl giggled.

"By all means, your highness," the teryna assured her. "I have business of my own to attend to. And thank you for your company this morning."

"It has been a pleasure, Lady Anora," Felicita answered, holding firm despite Maria's hard tug on her hand. "One I hope to repeat."

"As do I."

Anora's smile was warm as Felicita finally allowed Maria to pull her forward, the two of them carefully edging through the milling nobles toward the door that would allow them into the body of the palace itself. It was no surprise to feel Amandine fall into step behind them - they were going to meet the king, and any opportunity to put herself in Alistair's eye-line was not to be sniffed at.

Away from the sound of the commons being herded out of the palace, the corridors were quiet but still brimming with life, the nobility making their own way at a more sedate pace to their personal pursuits and duties. Alistair was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, in conversation with Demelza Tabris. The Hero of Ferelden looked a little harassed, Felicita noted, but that was understandable. After presenting such a difficult case before so many people, anyone had the right to seem out of sorts. Maria's hand slipped from her own as they reached the floor, the little girl from Rivain letting loose an outlandish cry as she threw herself at the king. Alistair laughed, catching her in mid-air to swing her about before setting her down.

"To arms already, little lady? Will you attack an unprepared enemy so viciously?"

Maria giggled again, swinging his hand back and forth between them. "You said we could play when your work was done, and your work _is_ done, and I want to play and fight and ride and all the rest of it!"

Alistair grinned down at her. "What can a poor, beleaguered king do in the face of such imperious insistence?" he answered teasingly. "Can he possibly tempt you to lunch, first?"

"Aww ..."

As Maria pouted, Felicita chuckled at their back and forth. "An army cannot march on an empty stomach, little one," she pointed out fondly.

"But _after_ , can we play?" Maria asked, turning her big eyes onto Alistair.

"I swear, by all my finger puppets, after we have eaten, you may merrily beat me into the ground with a stick to your heart's content," he promised her, raising his eyes with a chuckle at her cheer to focus on Felicita. "And how did you find the Petitioners Court, your highness?"

 _Sweet Andraste ... were his eyes that beautiful last week? So bright and warm and golden ..._ Surprised by her sudden acknowledgement of at least one of the king's charms, Felicita swallowed, raising a smile of her own in answer to his.

"Educational, your majesty," she told him. "And very well done. I enjoyed seeing how a good king administers his realm."

To her delight, Alistair's ears turned a charming shade of pink as he cleared his throat. "Yes, well, I'm not sure everyone would agree that I'm anywhere near a _good_ king ..."

"Then their opinion is wrong," she said simply, her smile deepening at his rather sweet inability to accept that he was actually good at his role in society.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Amandine step forward, inwardly bracing herself to give up Alistair's attention, but to her surprise, the Tantervale lady narrowed her focus onto Demelza.

"Warden Tabris, I was wondering if I could speak with you a little further on elven life in Denerim?"

Dem hesitated for just a fraction of a moment. "I haven't lived an elven life in Denerim for more than ten years, my lady," she countered quickly. "The _best_ person for you to talk to about that would be Bann Shianni Tabris."

"Truly?" Amandine seemed surprised, but not uninterested. "And she would be happy to educate me?"

"Oh, Shianni _loves_ educating human nobility about elven life," Dem assured her. "She's over there."

As Amandine turned away, moving with purpose toward the pointed-out elven Bann of the Denerim Alienage, Alistair's poorly concealed grin erupted into a cackle of laughter.

"Shianni is going to kill you for that," he predicted to his friend, who just shrugged innocently.

"She did say she wanted to be _educated_ ," Dem defended herself. "Best person for that is Shianni, right?"

"I reserve the right to deny you immunity from her retribution," was Alistair's response, even as Maria pulled hard on his hand. " _Yeeeees?_ Oh, yes, lunch. Do excuse us, ladies. Um, your highness."

He offered up a perfunctory bow, and got ever so slightly stuck there as Maria took the opportunity to clamber up onto his back. And there they remained for a few interminable seconds - the king bent double as though afraid moving might flip the child off, and Maria draped over his back as though attempting to mount a particularly difficult donkey. Felicita could feel her cheeks beginning to ache from the effort of keeping her smile small, making the mistake of meeting Demelza's eyes. The elven Warden was laughing silently, holding her stomach at the ridiculous view Alistair was presenting to the majority of his nobles for the sake of a little girl.

"Would you like a little help, your majesty?" Felicita asked, as innocently as she was able.

"Ah ... a little help would be ... helpful, yes," Alistair managed in a faint grown, the position doing nothing for his ability to complete a sentence in comfort.

Chuckling, Felicita lifted Maria a little way, helping the girl turn about and hook her arms about the king's shoulders. Alistair's hands rose to tuck beneath her thighs as he straightened up, red-faced but smiling himself.

"I appear to have been mounted," he declared, hoisting Maria a little higher. "Shall we gallop, fearless knightling?"

Maria raised a hand, pointing down the corridor. "To lunch, and then play time!"

Releasing the most tortured parody of a neigh Felicita had ever heard, the king turned and ran full-pelt down the corridor, nobles scattering before him with more annoyance than amusement at his behavior. The princess herself laughed, pressing her hands to her stomach as she turned to Demelza.

"He seems very at ease today," she commented.

The redheaded elf grinned back at her. "That was the _real_ Alistair," she intimated. "Not the king, or the boy on his best behavior. If you want to be the queen, _that's_ the man you should be learning about, your highness."

"And what if I am not here to be a queen, Lady Tabris, but to be a wife?" Felicita heard herself ask, curious to know how the king's best friend would react to this.

Dem's grin faded into an approving smile. "In that case, my advice would be this," she said calmly. "Use him, hurt him, forget to appreciate him, and I will end you. But love him, and I will be the best friend you will ever have."

Felicita's brow rose at the gently-put threat. "It is a poor woman who will give her heart to a man merely to attain the friendship of his friends," she countered quietly, her eyes rising to look along the passage where the king had disappeared, unaware of just how soft her gaze was in Alistair's wake. "You could hate me for eternity, Warden-Commander, and it would have no effect upon any feeling I might learn for King Alistair. It is not _your_ children that the queen will bear, but his. Anyone who believes love can be bought is a fool."

"Aye, that is true."

Her eyes flickered back to Demelza, noting that the approval in the elven woman's smile had not faded with her words. It was a strengthening feeling, to realize that she was being tested by the one person in the palace who knew Alistair the man, rather than the king. And as aloof as Felicita had been holding herself from the contest, she had seen enough of the king to understand that the man beneath the crown was a man she could see herself befriending. A man she _wanted_ to know better. It was still a week or more until her own one-on-one with Alistair, days in which he might be enticed by others more than herself. Days in which she might not be given the opportunity of admiring his eyes for more than a moment at a time.

She smiled to herself, inclining her head to Demelza as she turned to find Don Carmello, the Antivan ambassador, waiting to escort her to lunch. No, she had not seen enough of Alistair Theirin to have formed a firm opinion of him yet, but if that small glimpse had been of the man he was not often allowed to be, then her interest was definitely piqued. _I wonder ... how long does it take to fall in love?_ Perhaps it was time to read some of those romance novels so thoughtfully left out for them in the ladies' common room. If she were to have a fighting chance in this competition - and she realized that she _did_ wish to engage in this strange courtship ritual - it was time to be more than just the perfectly behaved princess.

For better or for worse, Felicita's decision was made. She _would_ fight for her place on this battlefield, but her prize was not a throne, or a crown, oh no. It was brown eyes in a handsome face, worried and warm and hopeful, afraid to be open to the people who mattered. Alistair was more than just a king. He was a man alone in a sea of strangers, and one she was very interested to learn more of.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alistair displays something of a backbone, for possibly the first time in ten years.

Fire and terror, the bulk of the dragon rising above him, screaming that terrible scream through his heart and mind, paralyzing him where he stood. Blood dripped over the planes of his armor, wetting the hand that gripped his sword, soaking into leather and cloth to mingle with the cold sweat of fear. The smell of burning all around him ... the tug of Dem's hand against his shoulder ... pulling at him, whining ...

_Wait ... whining? Dem never whines about anything._

Alistair's eyes opened, forcing away the vestiges of the old familiar nightmare to focus on the rumpled pillow pressed into his cheek. His jaw cracked as he yawned, blinking eyes that felt gritty as the tug on his shoulder came again. Not a hand, but a paw ... Lady, his favorite mabari, trying to get his attention as gently as possible.

He raised his arm, rubbing his palm over her blunt head as she whined.

"What's wrong, love? Did you have a nightmare too?"

The look he got in return was about as withering as a dog could manage. Mabari were very smart dogs, and a just woken up Alistair was not very smart at all. He snorted with laughter at her expression, heaving himself off his stomach and onto his side, half-upright, to glance around the room in case of imminent danger.

What he found was what he had woken up to every morning for over ten years - the royal bedchamber of Ferelden. Oh, it had changed in that time, as he had grown comfortable enough to assert his own personality on the space, but there was something still intimidatingly lacking about the rich furnishings and portraits of former kings on the walls. The bed was, admittedly, luxurious; the biggest he'd ever seen, much less slept in, before the crown was placed on his head, and with the new mattress the Inquisitor had recommended he have delivered direct from Antiva City, it was actually comfortable, too. Even in the dark, he knew the place like the back of his hand ... the result of several long nights' study when he'd first been installed here that had included four broken toes, a smashed mirror, and an extremely suspect bruise on his posterior that had made sitting on the throne hell for a week.

No, there didn't seem to be anything amiss. Nothing apart from Lady, who was now pulling the blankets from his legs in a very business-like manner.

"Now what's got into you?" he asked, rubbing a hand through his hair wearily. "There's nothing here, love."

Lady wasn't having it. She heaved herself up to bounce her forepaws against his thigh, springing away to paw at the door, producing that worried whine of hers again as she sniffed the air. Despite himself, Alistair sniffed with her, frowning as he caught the scent of ... nothing. Nothing but the vaguely musty smell of his own sweaty bedsheets, anyway.

Then something else found its way into his conscious mind ... the sound of barking from the kennels outside drawing his eyes to the window, where the faintest suggestion of flickering light seemed to indicate ...

"Maker's blood!"

The palace was on fire.

Alistair sprang from the bed - a move that would have been quite impressive if he hadn't still had one foot caught in the blankets, sending him sprawling over the cold stone face first with a dull smack. Forgetting to reach for even a shirt to cover his bare chest, he scrambled to his bare feet and out through the door, breaking into to a run with Lady bounding ahead of him, startling the guards on night watch as they sped past.

"Rouse the household!" he yelled over his shoulder as they made an attempt to look alert. "There's a fire!"

Down the stairs on bare feet that stung with the aching chill of the grey stone beneath them, he rounded the corner on the floor where the ladies had been quartered, coughing in the swirling smoke that had begun to ghost from the open door to the ladies' quarters. Servants were clustered around the door, already organizing a bucket chain of water from the nearest pump to douse the flames; the flash of velvet and silk drew his eye to where Ceridwyn of Kirkwall was dry retching, Callista and Ciara trying to help her calm her hoarse breathing. Delphine was also with them, but she seemed far more concerned about her belongings than anything, certainly not interested in the fact that one of their number had clearly inhaled too much smoke and was suffering for it. Maria caught sight of him, rushing from the knot of ladies to thump against him.

"Mr. Kingness, the princess went back in and she didn't come back out!" she wailed to him, clinging on tight as he automatically hugged her close.

"Why did the princess go back in?" he asked, gently unhooking the child from his waist to crouch before her as the leather buckets bearing water finally made it to the doorway and beyond in the care of guards and servants alike. At his side, Lady was whining, butting at Maria's arm as though worried about the little girl.

"Because, because Lady Leelee and Lady Mandy didn't come out when Ceri got everyone up, and then Ceri got sick, and the soldier men said no one should go back, but the princess did her princess thing and just went, and now she's gone!" Maria was very close to tears, frightened for her favorite friend among the adult women she had been living among for the past week or more.

"Then I will have to do the king thing, won't I?" Alistair assured her. "Lady will stay with you." Rising to his feet, he gestured to the nearest noble. "You, ser ... Bann Ranthenn, isn't it? Please see the ladies settled in temporary quarters on the royal floor. And you there -"

The guard he had called to turned, his sooty face ashen with shock. "Yes, your majesty?"

"Fetch the mage healers to the royal floor," Alistair ordered, surprisingly in his element when it came to mild chaos like this. "And have someone rouse Arl Eamon, Teryn Cousland, and Teryna Mac Tir!" he added, already striding past the elves and humans manhandling buckets through the wide doors to the ladies' quarters, waving a hand before his face to clear some of the smoke out of his way.

"Wait! Your majesty!"

He ignored the voice that called after him, quick to note that the fire seemed to have originated in the one room that had been vacated almost immediately - formerly the room assigned to Lady Marguerite. The hearth should not have been lit in there at all. Was there an assassin somewhere in his palace?

A hand on his bare back made him jump, glancing sharply over his shoulder to find Lady Ciara handing him a wet cloth to place over his mouth and nose. She had one of her own, and a handful of others.

"Lady Ciara, you should not be here," he tried to tell her, muffled through the cool cloth.

"The princess is my friend, your majesty," the shyest of his prospective brides informed him, her gaze as defiant as it could be in the circumstances. "And you may need help to gather the others, too."

"It's just ... there may be flames, and ... well, you're not exactly dressed for ..." he gestured helplessly to her loose nightgown, feeling awful when her flushed cheeks grew darker still in a deep blush.

But to his surprise, shy-as-a-Chantry-mouse Lady Ciara rallied. "Your majesty," she said rather coolly, given the shouting chaos not five feet away from them, "you are barefoot and bare-chested. I rather think _you_ are the one not dressed."

Alistair goggled at her, suddenly embarrassed at the realization that she was absolutely right. Neither of them was dressed for a rescue, but here they were. _Oh, well, nothing for it._ He drew himself up as best he could, and nodded to her. "All right, then ... which one is Lady Leona's room?"

The girl before him seemed to grow with his sudden confidence in her, nodding toward the door to his right. "In there," she told him. "Amandine is a little further along - I'll go and check in there."

"Ciara ... be careful."

As she nodded and hurried off to the appropriate room, Alistair found himself reassessing his opinion of the shyest of the bunch. There was a backbone of steel hidden under all those nerves. It was rather attractive, really. _Stop admiring her backside and rescue the damsel, you buffoon._ He pushed open the door she had indicated, frowning when it seemed to catch on something. With a rather harder shove, he got it open, easing inside to peer around. His bare foot set down on something soft that tried to pull away, making him lurch backward in surprise.

To his horror, he found Lady Leona of Starkhaven stretched out on the floor behind the door. _Oh, sweet Andraste, I hit her with the door. And trod on her!_ Cringing at his own clumsiness, he knelt swiftly, fingers seeking her throat to make certain she was only unconscious and not dead. The last thing he needed was dead visitors to his court. She moaned softly as he found her pulse, unaware of the deep sigh of relief that rose from his chest at this sign of life. With little trouble, he lifted her slight form into his arms, kicking the door open with his foot to step out into the smoky corridor.

There, he found Ciara supporting Amandine in a slow shuffle toward the relative safety of the main stairs. The lady from Tantervale was pallid, wheezing with every step, but at least she was still upright. She raised a hand, gesturing back along the passage.

"Fe ... Felicita ..."

Alistair felt something in his chest contract painfully. "Where is she?" he demanded, harsher than he had intended to be.

Amandine swallowed, wheezing harder as she tried to draw the words together, but Ciara answered him. "We couldn't rouse her," she told him worriedly. "She's in Amandine's room - we left the door open."

Later, Alistair couldn't have said _why_ he reacted the way he did; why the panic that gripped him at the thought of the princess left unconscious in the smoky halls was _quite_ so sharp. He could justify it with logic - that the death of the Antivan princess in Ferelden while under his protection was a disaster, that no one deserved to be left to suffocate in such a way. But there was no real justification for why he didn't just send someone else to fetch her out.

"You there!" he snapped to the nearest guard, jerking his head to summon him out of the bucket chain. "Take the ladies to safety on the royal floor."

"I ..." The guard didn't manage more than one syllable before Leona was carefully placed in his arms, lolling against his chest. He looked helplessly to the other women, who were already shuffling past the firefighting crew. "Yes, your majesty."

Satisfied, Alistair spun on his heel, ignoring the rug burn on the sole of his foot to run back along the passageway, seeking that open door. _Come on, come on ... they left the door open, she's got to be in one of these rooms ... Ah!_ He skidded to a halt next to the door that stood open, ducking inside to look around wildly.

"Fabs?"

There was Felicita, sprawled half on the steps to the bed dais, the loose folds of her white nightgown a stark contrast to the spill of black hair over her shoulder. She wasn't moving, and for a moment, his panic deepened at the thought that there was no breath in her, either. He all but tripped over his own feet to reach her, falling painfully to his knees on bare stone, brushing her braid out of his way to smooth his fingers over her bare shoulder to her throat. _Please,_ he found himself praying. _Please don't be ..._ The flood of relief at the sensation of blood pulsing beneath his fingers made him almost laugh, drawing an ill-advised breath too deep. Coughing, he grabbed the blanket from the bed, gently wrapping her in the soft folds to lift her up into his arms. Her head lolled onto his shoulder, fingers grasping weakly at the blanket he had cocooned her in, but she was _alive_. And she would soon be safe.

Well, as safe as she could be. Alistair could feel himself frowning as he hurried through the lingering smoke toward the open landing. The fire was out, but who had set it? What had been the purpose of setting it? _Did_ he have an assassin in his palace? They were troubling questions, made more so when he realized that not _all_ the ladies had been recovered from their assigned quarters.

A harried-looking guard captain found him as he stepped out of the thick smoke. "Your majesty, the fire is out," he began, but Alistair was ahead of him.

"Where is Lady Rosamunde?" he demanded, already moving to the stairs that lead back up to the royal floor.

"Uh ... she was not in the ladies' quarters, your majesty ..."

"Find her," Alistair snapped over his shoulder. "Search the palace immediately!"

"Yes, ser!"

Mounting the steps, he was not surprised to find the usually deserted hallways of the royal floor bustling with people - servants tending to the ladies who had experienced such a dreadful awakening, mages applying their healing magics, a plethora of guards standing at each entry-way. Cormac, his personal secretary, was waiting for him by one of the open doors.

"This way, your majesty," the man called, gesturing for him to come inside and deliver his precious cargo to comfort and safety.

It took a moment to realize that this was the official Queen's Apartment, but at the moment, the location really didn't matter to Alistair at all. With a nod to the mage waiting to tend to the princess, he moved to the bed, careful to lay Felicita down as gently as he could. She coughed softly, a grimace on her face at the pain that must have caused her, and for a moment, Alistair felt a novel sense of reluctance to leave her side. He hesitated, his hand curled into hers as the mage stepped forward, hands already a-glow to heal the damage caused by her foolish bravery.

As he watched, she stirred, the sweet dimple in her left cheek showing itself with the motion of her mouth. A moment later, she rolled onto her side toward him, coughing as the healing magic forced the smoke damage from her lungs, allowing her to take a comfortable breath once again. Alistair felt one of the many knots of tension he was carrying relax and unravel as her fingers tightened on his, as those remarkable hazel-brown eyes of hers opened to focus on him. She opened her mouth, but he stilled whatever she had been about to say with a shake of his head.

"No more heroics, princess," he heard himself say sternly. "You are far more precious than you seem to realize."

Surprise showed itself in her gaze, in the softly pleased curve of her smile as she relaxed onto her back. Alistair could feel his own mouth curving in answer to that smile, reluctantly releasing her hand.

" _Principessa,_ I ... oh, your majesty!"

Tearing his gaze from the beautiful smile before him, Alistair found the Antivan ambassador in the doorway, black brows drawn close together in concern beneath the stunning disarray of his white hair. The man looked as though he had been roused from his bed and run straight to the main palace, clearly filled with deep concern for the well-being of his charge.

"Don Carmello," he greeted the man, straightening from his crouch beside the bed. "The princess is safe; she has been tended by a mage. She will be remaining here with the other ladies under close guard, until I discover precisely what has happened here. I am sure a bed can be made up for you in the adjoining room if you wish to remain nearby."

Carmello hesitated, glancing between the king and Felicita uncertainly. "Ah ... thank you, your majesty," he offered in answer, belatedly bowing to the monarch in their midst.

Alistair nodded to him, glancing down just once more to be certain Felicita was awake and unharmed before he strode to the door himself, meeting Cormac in the busy hallway. The secretary handed him a shirt and robe, both of which he was quick to pull on. As warming as the exertion had been, it was still chilly in the palace after dark, even at the height of summer.

"Do all these people need to be here?" he asked, impatient with the sheer numbers crowding around him. "Dismiss everyone who does not have a reason to be on this floor. Oh, but keep the guard complement high. Where's Dem?"

As Cormac opened his mouth to answer, the familiar sound of his friend's voice intruded.

"She's here. And so is your missing lady."

Alistair turned, surprised by the anger in Demelza's voice, to find his diminutive best friend pushing a decidedly _un_ dressed Rosamunde into one of the empty bedchambers with a sharp warning to stay put or suffer consequences. And perhaps more surprising was the lack of protest from the lady herself. The elven Warden turned back to Alistair.

"The Orlesian ambassador has been placed under guard," she informed him, quiet but harsh. "They were in bed together. _Naked_."

Alistair's mouth dropped open. Of all the things he might have expected to hear, that had not been on the list. His eyes slipped toward the door behind which she had just incarcerated Rosamunde of Gwaren. _With the Orlesian ambassador? But why was Eamon ..._ His thought trailed off before it could finish, long-banked resentment suddenly flaring in his temper.Someone had been trying to manipulate him again, and this time he knew exactly who to blame.

"You found them together?" he asked Demelza, as around them, everyone who was superfluous was ushered firmly out of the royal quarters. "You'd swear to it?"

"I did, and I would," she confirmed. "And I wasn't the only one. It's going to be all over the palace by morning, and the city by midday."

Alistair held her gaze for a long moment, his mind racing. "Cormac."

The secretary pushed to his side quickly. "Majesty?"

"Please bring Teryn Cousland, Teryna Mac Tir, and Arl Eamon to my private study," Alistair asked him, feeling the muscle in his left jaw twitching at the effort of staying calm. "As quickly as possible, if you would."

"Of course, your majesty." Cormac bowed and hurried off, leaving the king and the Warden alone.

Dem eyed Alistair warily. "What are you planning?" she asked, only a hint of suspicion in her tone.

"I plan on being the king for once," he told her. "You'll come, won't you?"

"You really think I'm going to miss this?" she countered. "Monster's in with Lady Ceri - she apparently got a mouthful of sparks when she investigated the fire initially, that's why she was worst affected."

"But she's well now?" Alistair asked, turning to make his way toward the private study with his friend at his side. He liked Ceri, enjoying her blunt wit and bald humor, and - as much as this should not have happened - it would be a good excuse to increase the time Fergus spent around the redhead in the days and weeks to come.

"She's been healed," Dem assured him. "Sleeping now, I'm told. I set Monster to guard her, just in case."

"Oh."

Alistair pulled up short for a moment, glancing back along the corridor. _Should I set Lady to guard the princess?_ he wondered. _But Maria won't be long in joining Fabs, I'm sure, and Lady is guarding her. I'll check, once this is done._ Just coming to that decision relaxed the new flare of worry that had spiked through his mind. He'd check on all of them, of course, but ... _No, it's only been ten days. Far too soon, you ridiculous ..._

"Alistair?"

He jerked out of his thoughts visibly, eyes snapping to meet Dem's faintly amused gaze. "What?"

Demelza smirked at him. "You drifted off for a second there, Longshanks," she told him. "Happy thoughts of pretty eyes again?"

"I didn't ... I wasn't ..."

He frowned as his best friend laughed, patting his shoulder. "You should definitely do that flustered thing around them," she suggested. "It's adorable."

"I'm not adorable, I'm ..."

But Dem was already pushing into his study, leaving Alistair to trail after her, grumbling about being teased when he was having a bad enough night as it was. Cormac followed them, quick to deliver the timeline of the evening as he had ascertained it from the ladies now beginning to settle once again for the night. Felicita had roused first, it seemed, and Ceri not long after, both women working together to rouse their companions and remove them from immediate danger. Ceri had attempted to fight the fire herself, and inhaled sparks that had almost overwhelmed her, resulting in her retching as Alistair found them. 

It wasn't long before the three requested nobles were entering to join them there - just long enough for Dem to bring Alistair up to speed on what exactly she had seen when she'd discovered Rosamunde in the ambassadorial quarters. No matter what excuse the woman came up with, there was very little she would be able to do to recover her reputation once _that_ became common knowledge. Eamon was already scowling as he entered, decidedly unhappy about being roused from his bed in the early hours before dawn; Fergus was fully dressed and armed; Anora was clearly still in her nightgown beneath her robe, but presented a calm face to the king as she curtsied.

"What is all this about, Alistair?" Eamon demanded, blanching as the door closed behind him to the tune of Demelza clearing her throat pointedly. "Your majesty, I mean."

Leaning on his desk, Alistair sighed, inwardly bracing himself as he considered the three most powerful people in his country. His uncle, who didn't actually seem to like him all that much; a close friend, who had his own problems; and his former sister-in-law, who up until the last week hadn't spent more than two days at court together in his entire reign.

"A little over an hour ago, a fire broke out in the quarters assigned to our visiting dignitaries," he informed them, though it seemed as though Fergus, at least, already knew some of it. "Lady Ceridwyn, Lady Leona, Lady Amandine, and Princess Felicita sustained injury, though all have now been seen by the mages and declared fit. Fergus, I'd like you to bring in your personal guard to serve as bodyguards to the ladies for the rest of the month. If there is an assassin attempting to cause harm to our visitors, I trust that you and your men will prevent further trouble arising."

"Of course, your majesty." Fergus nodded sharply, about to turn away when Alistair held up a hand.

"No, stay. I need ... I've asked you all here because I would like your input on a decision that must now be made." Alistair hesitated, glancing past them to Demelza. "Warden-Commander?"

Dem caught on to his reluctance to present what he knew, stepping to the desk to face the trio of nobles. "One of the ladies was not present in her assigned quarters when the fire broke out," she informed them tersely. "Lady Rosamunde was located in the Orlesian ambassador's bed, performing an enthusiastically carnal act. Setting aside the fact that she is clearly unsuitable to be queen, I was not alone when I discovered her. The gossip will be all over the city by sunset tomorrow."

"Don't be ridiculous," Eamon scoffed. "A lady of her standing would never -"

Dem hissed at him. "Are you calling me a liar, Arl Eamon?"

"I do not see that there is any decision to be made here," Anora interjected smoothly, averting the possibility of bloodshed at the sight of Demelza's hands moving to flex on her dagger hilts in the face of Eamon's idiotic rudeness. "Rosamunde has disgraced herself. She should be turned out of the palace immediately, and the Orlesian ambassador sent back to Orlais forthwith."

Alistair blinked, surprised but somehow heartened by this decidedly sensible advice from a woman he had thought would be only too pleased to see him humiliated by one of the women he was supposed to be choosing to be his wife.

"I agree with Lady Anora," Fergus added. "Even if it were possible, this isn't something that should be hushed up. She's tried to make a fool of the king, to make you a cuckold before marriage was even presented. Her reputation is nothing compared with yours, Alistair."

"Let us not be hasty," Eamon said, holding up his hands. "Where is the proof? The word of a single Grey Warden, hero though she be, and a few servants is hardly enough to condemn a fine lady and destroy her reputation. Place a close guard on her to police her behavior, but there is no need to send her away."

"No need?" Anora sounded shocked. "And suppose the king were to ask her to be his wife, how long do you suppose this tale would remain a secret? Within a year, all the courts of Thedas would know that the Queen of Ferelden is a brazen whore with no regard for the dignity of her own husband!"

"By all means, expel the Orlesian ambassador," Eamon went on, ignoring Anora pointedly. "Such expulsions happen so often as to be rarely commented upon. But Rosamunde -"

"- has behaved abominably, and should be punished for her actions," Anora finished for him. "I apologize that I ever offered my voice to support her claim, Alistair. She cannot be allowed to remain in the capital. She cannot be rewarded with continued favor after such a public indiscretion!"

"Again, the word of a single Grey Warden is hardly -"

"Hardly what, Arl Eamon?" Anora interrupted in a fierce tone. "Are you daring to suggest that the woman who ended the Blight, who saved _your_ life against seemingly impossible odds, is somehow not to be trusted with the protection and well being of her friend, the king?"

Alistair felt his mouth fall open for the second time that night, his gaze dragged inexorably toward Demelza. He knew Anora and Dem could not _stand_ to be more than five minutes in each other's company, and yet Anora was speaking on behalf of the elven Warden without even a slight prompt from anyone else in the room. Dem was watching the escalating argument in front of her with interest, the only sign of her surprise the height of her brows. Was _this_ what Eamon had meant all those years ago, when he had described Anora as "spirited"? Had he really been referring to her intelligent ability to defend a sensible suggestion against an idiotic one?

"... listen here, Anora, you are hardly in a position to comment on what is right," Eamon was saying. "As the child of an executed traitor, you have no voice when it comes to scandal -"

"As the man who forced the hand of the law in arranging the circumstances of that execution, Eamon, you have no authority to speak, either," Fergus said sharply, earning himself a deathly glare from the older man.

"Enough!"

Four pairs of eyes turned toward Alistair in surprise. It took a moment for him to realize that _he_ was the one who had spoken, annoyed by the descent into old arguments lead by a man he was increasingly coming to see as more of a burden than an aid in his leadership of the country. For the briefest moment, he felt panic rising at the realization that he had just told them to shut up, panic that was just as quickly squashed by the proud look in Demelza's eyes when he glanced at her. _You're the king, aren't you? **Be** the king for once._

"Uncle, Anora's reaction is exactly as it should be," he said firmly. "I _will_ be having Lady Rosamunde returned to Gwaren in the morning, and the Orlesian ambassador will be returning to Orlais with notes of reproof."

"I refuse to be a party to this," Eamon began to bluster, but Anora interrupted him once again.

"I do not believe the _king_ was asking for your permission, _Arl_ Eamon," she pointed out. If Alistair didn't know better, he could have sworn she was enjoying this. But then ... _she might be_ , he realized. _How long is it, exactly, since she was asked for her advice honestly?_ "I believe the king was stating the action he intends to take. Or do you have some objection to the protection of the crown's reputation? Some _other_ reason to want to keep Lady Rosamunde close, perhaps?"

The implication was blindingly obvious. After all, if Rosamunde was sleeping with ambassadors, was it really such a leap to imagine her sharing the bed of the man who was touted as having the most influence over the king himself? Eamon's response was spluttering incoherence ... but Alistair's eyes narrowed as he watched. There _was_ something there, something hidden but strong enough to make Eamon speak for this poorly behaved wench of a lady.

"Fergus, you will see to the increased security arrangements," he said, choosing not to let Eamon explode for once. "Anora ... as awkward as it is to ask you, Rosamunde _is_ a representative of your region. Would you see to the arrangements for her removal?"

Anora nodded to him graciously. "With relish, your majesty," she assured him. "She will not be in Denerim a moment longer than is absolutely necessary."

"Thank you." Alistair looked to Eamon. "Do you have anything to add, my lord?"

"You cannot do this, Alistair," the arl protested. "Think of the gossip -"

"I am the king, uncle, something you seem to have forgotten in recent years," Alistair told him coldly. "Whatever it is Lady Rosamunde is holding over your head that induces you to defend her indefensible actions, it is your own affair. You will not force me into foolish decisions, or into offending the other ladies _you_ invited to Ferelden in the first place. That will be all."

"Now you listen to me, you little -"

There was a silken sound as Dem drew one of her daggers, testing the edge pointedly with her thumb as Eamon's horrified eyes met hers. "I believe the king dismissed you, Arl Eamon. Would you like help finding your quarters?"

Alistair knew his best friend well enough to spot that she wanted to have a word with Eamon herself. It wasn't generally a good idea to turn Dem loose on the nobility, but his uncle had pushed a little _too_ hard tonight. Tired as he was from his unexpectedly exciting waking, Alistair wasn't interested in sparing Eamon's feelings for once.

"That's a good idea," he said. "Dem, why don't you escort the arl back to his rooms? If there _is_ an assassin on the loose, it is best to make sure the court is protected."

"Very wise," Fergus agreed. "Lady Anora, shall we?"

Backed into a corner, Eamon had little choice but to be ushered out through the door with Demelza at his back, both of them followed by the teryn and teryna. Alistair waited until the door was closed ... and sank down onto his seat, acutely aware that his limbs were shaking.

He had _never_ stood up to Eamon like that, never seen his uncle reduced to incoherence by the eloquent implications of a true politician. No wonder the man had been so happy when Anora resigned her seat on the council all those years ago; she could talk him into a corner within minutes. Alistair had a sudden vision of years of council sessions that could have gone so much better if he'd just had Anora there to make Eamon shut up. _What a missed opportunity._ But one he could rectify. She clearly wasn't holding anything against him, not if her fierce defense of his decision was anything to go by. And her advice had been the _right_ advice, despite the fact that Rosamunde's dismissal from court could reflect badly on her. Perhaps there was something to be said for so-called "spirited" women in power.

For some reason, his mind conjured the image of hazel-brown eyes and a soft smile at that thought, the memory of unnecessary bravery that could have ended so terribly for everyone. Not only _her_ bravery, of course ... but it was _her_ face he recalled most clearly from the panic that had filled the air. Now why her in particular, he wondered vaguely, willing his hands to stop their shaking as he breathed deep.

Smoke still hung in the air, the smell of it impregnating the linen shorts he had been sleeping in, and would linger for days yet, he knew. But right now, the fire didn't seem to matter so much. Not as much as gentle fingers squeezing his own as she stirred back to life under his eyes.

Alistair felt a grin rise on his face. Another name struck off the list, twenty more days in which to make a decision. Perhaps, despite the sudden drama, this marriage idea wasn't such a bad one, after all.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicita strengthens a few friendships, and learns a few things along the way.

"Oh, non, _non!"_

The palace rang with the sound of Orlesian weeping, Delphine's strident voice driving everyone out of their temporary quarters on the royal floor within minutes of her beginning. She wasn't the only one whose clothing was smoky and in need of a good wash, yet her lamentations over the state of belongings that could be relatively easily replaced were definitely grating on the nerves. No wonder the king had retired into the library to work this morning, Felicita mused. The walls and door were thick enough to hold back the sound of shallow sobbing over the state of a few lengths of cloth.

As for herself, the princess had been deeply grateful to find that some thoughtful nobles had volunteered pieces from their own wardrobes to clothe the ladies while their own clothing was thoroughly washed. It might not have been a style she was accustomed to wearing, but it was comfortable. They all looked very Ferelden today, the kitchen yard of the palace bright with their varied gowns and underclothes drying in the gentle breeze. There had been little news of what had happened, other than Rosamunde's ignominious dismissal from the palace. Felicita seemed to be the only member of the visiting ladies who had no objection to being assigned a bodyguard for the duration of her stay in Denerim, either. But then, she had lived under the threat of assassination all her life; she felt safer to have the young woman from Highever shadowing her. Certain others did not share her feelings - Maria was intimidated by the young man the teryn had assigned to her, despite his best efforts to be warm and friendly with the child; Ceridwyn had raised such a fuss over not being trusted with her own safety that Teryn Cousland had finally assigned _himself_ as her bodyguard during the day, and offered to turn her over his knee if she caused any trouble for the guard who would watch over her at night. All that had earned him was a wicked smile, and a suggestion that she might enjoy it, at which point he had turned a fascinating shade of red and abruptly changed the subject.

Felicita smiled to herself, raising her head from her letter-writing to look across the walled garden. She had chosen to sit outside, to enjoy the sunshine and make the most of the spring warmth as much as to breathe the fresher air while the palace was cleared for the lingering smoke. She would not soon forget the sensation of her lungs filling with smoke; the way her body had ceased to do as she needed it to, dropping her into dangerous unconsciousness instead. But neither would she forget the gentle rush of clarity that came with being healed by magic, opening her eyes to find the king looking down at her, his hand in hers, his eyes hard with concern. Her smile deepened as she recalled the way Alistair's gaze had softened as she focused on him, the way he had called her precious. The few minutes he had spent around dawn watching Maria sleeping against her stomach from the doorway, seemingly unaware that the princess herself was still awake. It had been an awful night, certainly ... but some things were not so awful for her as they might have been for others.

Another wail from the palace made her wince. _Goodness, Delphine is certainly in full voice today._ Which was unfortunate for the Orlesian lady, because today had been set aside for her to work her wiles on the king. However, since she was clearly distraught over the slight smokiness of her clothing, Alistair had rather quickly allowed her the day free to get over it, and disappeared to work as hastily as he could. The other ladies had followed the princess into the sunshine, arranged in various places in the walled garden which had been deemed the safest place for them until it was established that there were no assassins lurking around the next corner to pounce.

Everyone was rather subdued, though it was hardly surprising. Being roused from sleep to the chaos of a fire, getting a full look at the king in all his bare-chested glory - and secretly, Felicita kept replaying that image in her mind, all the while trying to remind herself that she really should be paying attention to the _man_ , rather than his enticingly manly form - and not truly knowing what had happened had resulted in tired eyes and low spirits today. Amandine was sitting with Leona in the shade of the wall, ostensibly listening to the Starkhaven girl reading aloud from the sermons of Divine Beatrice, but more likely napping; Ciara had engaged Maria in making daisy chains to keep the little girl entertained but quiet for the time being; Ceri was deep in conversation with Fergus Cousland, peppering their discussion with beautifully performed coughing fits to keep him hovering in concern close by. Felicita herself had chosen to sit at the table beneath the rose bower and write to her mother, and Callista had elected to join her for the same pastime. Dispatches would be sent out by the ambassadors regarding the events of the night before by midday, and both Antivan and Nevarran women had mutually agreed it would be better for all concerned to have their own declaration of the fire and its consequences sent with those dispatches.

But what to write, that was the main concern. _Mother, there was a fire, no one got hurt, and I think the king is incredibly sexy_ just didn't seem to be quite the right way to go about this missive. Even considering writing that last part down was enough to make her giggle to herself, shaking her head at Callista's teasingly curious glance in her direction. No, she should just write as though it were any other letter, and keep her thoughts on Alistair to herself for the time being. She would have a clearer opinion on just what she thought of the King of Ferelden in a few days' time.

"By the way, highness, I wonder if you have looked at the schedule for the entertainments next week?"

Felicita blinked out of her thoughts, raising her head to look over at Callista once again. The Nevarran lady was smiling a very mysterious smile, her chin propped on her hand as she watch the princess react.

"I have not yet looked beyond the thirteenth," Felicita admitted, tilting her head in vague suspicion as Callista's smile widened.

"Ah, then you do not yet know that the king is celebrating his birthday on the twenty-first of this month," she shared, dark eyes flickering with amusement. "His thirty-third birthday, in fact. I understand there is to be both an official celebration to last the day, and a private dinner that evening. I wonder _who_ he will invite to it?"

Felicita snorted with laughter at the teasing tone in the other woman's voice. "Is this about the room I have been temporarily given, Callista?" she asked through a smile of her own. "You know as well as I do there is no significance to it."

"Oh, but it was so satisfying to see you offer to switch rooms with Amandine when she brought it up at breakfast." Callista laughed. "She thinks far too much of herself, that one."

"She is not as clever as she believes herself to be, either," Felicita agreed softly. "but she would be a fine queen, given the right education. As would all the ladies, in their own way."

Callista rolled her eyes at the princess. "You are disgustingly fair-minded," she accused fondly. "Just once I would like to hear you say something petty about one of our illustrious competitors, without following it with a genuine compliment."

"Now why would I do a thing like that?" Felicita answered, a teasing lilt in her own voice now. "I am supposed to be above such things."

It was Callista's turn to snort with laughter at that, shaking her head in delight. "You are a treasure, Felicita," she informed the younger woman. "I must remember to tell the king so when I catch him alone."

"Oh ... don't do that, Callista." Felicita's smile faded as she shook her head, reaching across the table to touch Callista's hand. "Please. This month is hard enough for him without confusing his mind with matchmaking from within our own circle. The list has narrowed from ten to six, certainly, but to choose between six women in a single month is a terrible task for anyone."

Callista's expression softened, seemingly impressed by this unexpected display of concern for the man at the center of their collective machinations. She wrapped the princess' hand in both her own for a moment. "If he has not already narrowed that list in his mind to one or two by now, then he is not paying attention," she said gently. "You are right; we would all, in our own way, make good queens. But of us all? I think there is only one, perhaps two, who would truly be a good _wife_ to him, and that is what King Alistair needs."

Felicita sighed softly. She had thought she was the only one to have noticed how isolated the king was, but it seemed she was mistaken. "Is he truly so very lonely, do you think?"

"I think that he is ... more lonely than we are seeing him," Callista answered her, keeping her voice quiet enough not to travel in the stillness of the garden. "The Teryn of Highever is rarely in the capital; the Warden-Commander is already speaking of returning to her own quest when the month is up. Without them here, have you seen any sign that he has a true friend among the nobility here?"

This much did seem to be true, Felicita reflected. Oh, she had witnessed the king holding conversations with any number of nobles, but none of them seemed to share the close trust he held with Fergus Cousland and Demelza Tabris. Callista was right; neither one of them was a regular face at court. The Alistair they were seeing was not as isolated as he would be at any other time. And despite herself, despite her insistence that she was not yet ready to commit to engaging fully in this competition ... the knowledge of that isolation made her heart ache for him.

"What you say is true," she conceded softly. "But why then are you encouraging me? Should you not be taking advantage of this knowledge for your own self?"

Callista chuckled lightly, releasing the princess' hand. "I would not be a good match for the king," she said easily enough. "A friend, perhaps, though likely not a close one. But a wife? No. Why, is there someone else you think I should be encouraging instead?"

Felicita forced herself to laugh with the Nevarran woman, suppressing the initial urge to deny her any opportunity to encourage any of the others. "Ciara, perhaps?" she suggested. "She is shy, yes, but she knows Ferelden, and she admires her king."

"She is also terrified of the idea of marrying a man more than a decade older than her," Callista pointed out in amusement. "But you are right. With more confidence, she would certainly be a fine queen, and a good wife."

The two women shared a smile, though Felicita had the distinct impression that Callista had taken more from their conversation than she had herself. A small hand tugged on her sleeve, drawing her attention to Maria, who was standing beside her chair with one daisy-crown on her head, and another in her arms. Ciara was still on the grass where she had left her, bedecked in as much daisy jewelry as they had been able to make.

"I made this for you," the little girl said hopefully. "Because you are my favorite."

"Oh, how lovely, Maria!" Felicita was only too happy to set her writing aside to exclaim over her little friend's offering, ignoring Callista's teasing protest at not being the "favorite". "And where do I put this?" she asked impishly. "Around my neck?"

"No!" Maria giggled, shaking her head. "It's a crown, silly, it goes on your _hair!_ Like mine is!"

"Oh, I see." Smiling, Felicita lowered her head to let her little friend arrange the slightly wilting flower chain over the twists and braids of her hair. "How do I look? Am I as pretty as you now?"

Maria's mouth fell open. "Am I _really_ pretty?"

Felicita's smile gentled, her hand reaching out to affectionately skim the girl's cheek. "You are beautiful, Maria," she promised the child. "People who say otherwise do not know what beauty is."

The little girl thought this over for a moment, a slow grin crossing her face before she threw her arms around the princess' neck, hugging her close enough to naturally slide into place on her lap as Ciara came to join them at the table.

"And Kee-ar-rar looks pretty too, doesn't she?" Maria demanded, wriggling to get comfortable on Felicita's knee.

"Ciara," Callista corrected fondly. "She is as pretty as the daisies, Maria."

Ciara suppressed an audible laugh at this declaration, taking a seat as she fiddled with one of her daisy bracelets. "Did you hear?" she asked softly. "It is the king's birthday next week."

"Will he have a party?" Maria asked immediately.

"He will have a party," Callista assured her. "There is a whole day set aside to celebrate."

"And presents?"

Felicita chuckled quietly. "Well, now, I was going to ask _you_ about that," she told the little girl. "Would you like to give him a present?"

Maria nodded, her enthusiasm dislodging the flower chain on her head until it hung rakishly over one eye.

"Then perhaps we should think about what you would like to give him as a present," Felicita went on, tucking the daisies back up and out of the child's face.

"I don't know what he likes," Maria protested, a sinking look on her face that suggested the thought of giving Alistair something he didn't like for his birthday was up there with a new Blight and Orlais invading.

"Yes, you do!" Ciara insisted. "You know he likes puppet shows, and funny jokes, and you know he likes sword fighting and riding."

"And dogs?" the little girl suggested timidly.

"He is Ferelden, they _all_ love their dogs," Callista pointed out in amusement.

"Maybe ... maybe something with a dog?" Maria suggested, looking to Felicita for reassurance.

"I think that is a lovely idea," the princess agreed.

"Oh, I know," Ciara interjected. "It's market day again tomorrow ... why don't we ask for permission to visit the market, and see if there's something there he might like for his birthday?"

Maria brightened for a moment, then looked downcast again. "But I don't have any money."

"Nonsense." Callista shook her head. "We all have something put by. Whatever you want to give the king for his birthday, little Maria, we will help you to buy."

"But then it will be from everyone and not me," the little girl fretted, nestling into Felicita's arms as the princess hugged her tight for a moment.

"Not if we give you the money, little one," the Antivan woman pointed out gently. "If we give you the money, then it becomes _your_ money, and whatever you buy with it will come from _you_."

"Mother Isandra said that anything she gave to me was still hers," Maria countered uncertainly.

Felicita felt a sudden surge of rage rise inside her. There had been too many little instances like this - moments when Maria shared some nonsense that had been drilled into her by the Grand Cleric of Dairsmuid, nonsense clearly designed to make the child feel as though she was worth nothing. _That useless Chantry woman!_ Maria's short life had been tragic enough without the Chantry filling her head with how wrong it was that she had been born, how grateful she should be to have a roof over her head, how nothing would ever belong to her. Just the thought of that smug Grand Cleric holding any kind of sway over the child in her arms was enough to set Felicita's blood aflame. No child should have to live with the knowledge that their mere existence was a burden, something she knew only too well herself. She could feel her expression darkening, the rush of her breath through pinched nostrils as her jaw set tight against an explosion of anger that would not help anyone, least of all the little girl nestled against her.

Thankfully, Callista and Ciara noticed that the princess was smoking like a volcano, and moved to damp the flames before they erupted.

"Mother Isandra was _wrong_ , Maria," Ciara told the child quickly. "A gift is something you give without expecting anything in return. You never expect it to be given back."

"What we give, we give freely, because we _want_ to," Callista added. "Because we are very fond of you, little one, and we want you to be happy."

"But if you give me things, won't you be unhappy because they aren't yours anymore?"

Callista's face lit up with a bright grin, in spite of Felicita's simmering, unspoken fury at a woman none of them were ever likely to meet. "I'll let you in on a secret," she said, leaning forward as though sharing a conspiracy. "One of the ways I make myself happy is by giving things to the people I love. So giving you a little money to make you happy, makes _me_ happy."

"And you will be happy to give your present to the king, won't you?" Ciara added. "The best way to be happy yourself is to make other people happy."

Maria blinked slowly, glancing between them. "And, and that really works?" she asked, tilting her head back to find the princess' face next to her own.

Felicita was quick to wipe the fury from her expression the moment she felt the child's head move, her smile just a little tense as she nodded in agreement. "It does work," she promised. "And, of course, we need to find presents for the king ourselves. I think Ciara's suggestion is a very good one - why don't we _all_ go to the market together? I'm sure Delphine will enjoy having no distractions while she entertains the king."

“I’m sure she will,” Callista murmured, flashing a grin at Ciara. The younger woman snorted with laughter, no doubt at some private joke they had shared before now.

"D'you think Mandy will want to come?" Maria asked, more curious than concerned, it seemed. "Only she said that you're not real and not real people don't do nice things for other people."

Felicita blinked, her anger over the Rivain Grand Cleric flown at this sudden example of innocent information sharing. "Ah ... well, we should invite her," she managed, glancing over to where Amandine still sat dozing beside Leona. "And Leona, too."

"What did she mean, you're not real?" Maria pressed further.

Felicita had to admit, she was stumped on how to answer that. Introducing a ten year old to the world of competitive womanhood was not something she had ever even attempted, much less prepared for. Callista came to the rescue, a quietly evil smirk on her face as she did so.

"Amandine is jealous because the princess is so lovely, Maria," she explained. "And because she has made some mistakes that she is not very good at correcting. Some people like to blame everyone else for their problems. But you are not to tell her that."

"So is Mandy the not real one?"

Even Callista seemed a little at sea on answering that, though Felicita had a feeling it was more to do with not being petty in front of the child than through any particular wish to be charitable to Amandine. Thankfully, however, the princess herself had an escape - Don Carmello had just entered the garden, catching her eye as he waited patiently beside the climbing roses.

"I must go and speak to the Antivan ambassador," she told them, kissing Maria's brow as the little girl slithered off her lap. "I will not be long."

Taking her letter in her hand, she rose, glad to escape the odd little conversation she had found herself in. And away from Maria and the need to be calm, she felt the rage bubbling again, raising coolly angry eyes to Carmello as he bowed to her.

"Princess," he greeted her. "Are you well?"

"You and I need to talk, ambassador," she said quietly. "I have a point that must be made to the Chantry in Dairsmuid."

Carmello blinked, but did not otherwise betray any surprise. “Of course, princess.”

And once that was done, she thought as the ambassador bowed and ushered her from the walled garden, her bodyguard close at their backs ... then she could turn the conversation to more pleasurable pursuits. Such as what one gifts a king on his birthday, when familiarity does not yet allow for intimate knowledge.

_Yet._


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alistair gets up close and personal, with more than one lady.

"... have actually been to Orlais, for the emperor's coronation. Halamshiral, I think it was. Beautiful place. Stunning .. architecture, all those ... columns and stairs ... and they have lovely, um, gardens too, I believe ..."

 _Maker's breath, what are you doing? Wittering on like some idiot about a place you barely remember!_ Alistair wanted to reach out and throttle himself, just to put a stop to the incessant sound of his own voice babbling away. But it was better than the alternative.

The alternative was still being suggested in the inviting pat of Delphine's hand on the cushion beside her. He couldn't think what had got into her. All right, so she had been very well-presented on the first night, and a little more touchy-feely every time she was close to him in company than the others were, but even so ... He hadn't expected her to be surprisingly charming all morning, and then turn into some sort of lecherous kraken after lunch. _Maybe that's a clue? Keep her hungry for food, and she won't start trying to feel you up?_

"Of course, the masks are a little unsettling," he heard himself say, wishing he had a better way of fending her off than wittering on about the one place she knew more about than he did. "What do you think?"

"Oh, I quite agree," Delphine answered, her rich voice throbbing with something that made him feel even more uncomfortable about the fact that she was watching his every move. Still, standing here by the window meant he wasn't sitting next to her, and that could only be a good thing. "They hide so much - the beauty of Orlais is in her people, not the masks they wear. Do you not agree?"

"Oh, I ... I'm sure you're right. I simply ... well, I have not seen many Orlesians without their masks," he told her, glancing ill-advisedly over his shoulder. _Bad idea._ She took it as an invitation to rise, with the clear intention of joining him at the window.

"You have seen me," the young woman pointed out, seemingly oblivious to the way he stiffened as her hand pressed to his back, as her other hand wound itself over the tense bulge of his bicep beneath his tunic. "Do you not find me beautiful?"

 _Oh, blessed Andraste, someone save me._ Alistair swallowed, forced to look down at her as she molded herself against his side. She _was_ beautiful; beautiful in the way he would say a snake is beautiful, all iridescent show with nothing but venom beneath, as had been proved by her inability to convince Maria to come anywhere near her. The little girl from Rivain was uncannily good at spotting liars and staying as far away from them as possible. But Delphine's show was enticing, in its way. She all but offered herself on a platter in the pout of her lips and the low-neck of her gown, in the way her hands claimed him without consideration for how it might look if others saw it. It had been months since he'd last taken Teagan up on the offer of a trip to the brothel; was it really so surprising that he should react to such a lascivious offer from such a beautiful girl?

"You are, are remarkably pretty, Lady Delphine," he stammered. "As are all the ladies in my court."

 _Hmm, she didn't like that._ Delphine's sultry smile had momentarily turned cold as he turned the compliment to her into a compliment for the entire court. He knew he shouldn't, but Alistair couldn't help feeling a vague surge of triumph at the sight of it. She wasn't as in control of the situation as she thought she was, that was a good thing. But then she upped the ante.

"But surely there is _one_ lady on whom you think most dearly, _majesté?"_ she purred, sliding her fingers over his palm in a very intimate fashion.

Alistair could feel himself beginning to sweat, letting out a strangled approximation of a laugh even as she pulled his hand up to her lips. _Maker's balls ... where is that bloody guard?_

"Uh, well, uh ... that is the purpose of this month, isn't it, my lady?" he asked, unsuccessfully trying to remove his hand from her grip without it being too obvious he was attempting to escape. "To, to make a choice?"

"Surely you do not need a month to know which is most suitable to share your bed, _majesté."_

Each word vibrated against his knuckles as her lips moved over his skin. Alistair wasn't sure what was wrong with him. Here was a beautiful young woman, all but tearing her clothes off to get the undivided attention of his ... well, his _lamppost_ , and all he wanted to do was hide somewhere she wouldn't be able to find him. _It can't just be because she's Orlesian, surely?_

"My, uh, my bed is not, not what I, uh ..." He swallowed, pulling a little harder. "Could I have my hand back, please?"

"Am I distracting you?" She loosed a laugh that was no doubt flirtatious and charming, but right now did nothing but grate on his nerves.

"Well, no, but, uh ..."

A sharp rap on the door gave him the impetus to wrench his hand out of her grip, turning toward it in relief. "Come!"

A guard pushed the door open, glancing between the king and his companion a little warily. "Your majesty, there's an urgent matter that needs your attention," he said, only just managing to make it sound as though he wasn't speaking from the script Alistair had prepared with him earlier.

"Can it not wait?" Delphine snapped at him. "The king is busy."

Alistair's brows rose high above his eyes as he blinked, glancing at her in surprise. _Well, Dem **did** say that if I wanted to get to know the ladies, I should pay attention to how they treat everyone lower in rank than them. That was illuminating. _

"I'll be there directly, John," he told the guard, stepping back to bow to Delphine. "If you will excuse me, my lady ... the work of a king does not stop, I'm afraid."

"They work you too hard, _majesté,_ " she simpered to him in answer. "I will wait for you to return."

"Oh, uh ... thank you."

Not entirely sure he _wanted_ her to wait for him to return - and quietly swearing to find something urgent to take up his time until midnight if necessary - Alistair inclined his head to her and strode from the room, the guard at his back. As the door closed behind them, he let out an explosive breath, reflexively wiping the back of his hand on his tunic.

"Sweet Maker, that woman wants to eat me," he complained, rolling his eyes as John bit down on a grin. "Where would you recommend I hide for the next half hour or so?"

John laughed, hurriedly suppressing the sound for fear of the lady overhearing them. "Somewhere away from here, sire?" he suggested in amusement.

"Your arts of concealment overwhelm me," Alistair drawled, smiling as he patted the man on the shoulder. "Thank you, John."

As the guard nodded to him, resuming his post by the door, the king turned to set off down the passageway ... only to hear the door beginning to open behind him. _Maker's blood, does she never give up?_ Without thinking, he broke into a run, whisking around the corner just a moment too late to avoid being seen by his determined pursuer.

_"Majesté?"_

Even with the knowledge that running away from a woman was not the way to make himself particularly well respected among his own staff, Alistair didn't slow, endeavoring to stay far enough ahead that Delphine would only just see him dodging around the next corner as well. He could hear her laughing behind him, evidently thinking they were playing some kind of game.

"I shall catch you, _majesté!"_

Skidding to a halt at an intersection, Alistair looked around wildly, not wanting to think about what she might demand as recompense for the run if she did manage to catch him. He caught sight of Lady Callista to his left, twisting to get out of sight down that passage before Delphine rounded the next corner, calling to him playfully. The Nevarran woman raised a brow, and smirked at the sound of Delphine's artful calls.

"What will you give me when I catch you?"

Callista rolled her eyes, gesturing to the king to join her. "In there, your majesty," she suggested, one hand lightly touching the door beside her. "I'll distract her."

"I'll name my firstborn after you," he swore gratefully, wrenching open the door to rush inside.

Into a dark, cramped space, that apparently already had someone in it. Someone who drew in a gasp of shock and yelped as his hand closed over their mouth.

"Shhh, please, shh, I'm not going to hurt you," he hissed, listening as the key turned in the lock behind him. _Well, that is one way to make sure Delphine can't find me. Or whoever this is ... wait a moment ..._

Blinded by the rush from torchlight to darkness, he struggled to squint into the pitch black that enveloped him, slow to let his other senses offer their own clues. The mouth and chin under his hand were soft and smooth; a tickle against his nose suggested strands of hair escaped from some cap or other; the hands pressed to his chest and hip were small and not particularly strong; the material under his other hand was silken, and the flesh beneath soft and rounded ... Actually, come to think of it, the whole body he was pressed against was soft and rounded in a very enticing way, the lack of space in here not helping when he realized he really should back up a little.

"I'm going to take my hand away," he whispered into the darkness. " _Please_ don't scream."

Very gently, he peeled his palm from the mouth he had stopped with it, resting his hand instead on the cold stone wall behind whoever this was. He listened as his companion drew in a startled breath.

"Good afternoon, your majesty."

If he could have curled into a ball and sunk into the ground in the instant he recognized her voice, Alistair would have accepted his fate happily. _Wonderful, just wonderful. You've got a princess pinned to a wall in a locked cupboard._ To her credit, Felicita wasn't trying to hit him or push him off, though now he thought about it, there didn't seem to be much room for her to do that in.

"Uh ... your highness." He cleared his throat. "I, uh ... I'm sorry, I ... was being chased," he finished lamely.

To his delight, he almost _felt_ her smile as she laughed at his admittedly weak excuse for cramming himself into a tiny cupboard with her at speed.

"There must be a terrifying monster roaming the halls for you to turn and run from them," she teased, and despite feeling his blush beginning to rise from his collar, Alistair found himself chuckling along with her.

"A many limbed creature of the deeps, madam," he assured her. "With a surprisingly tight grasp. Fortune smiled upon me in the form of Lady Callista and this hideaway."

He felt her shift a little, felt the warmth under his hand rise and fall with her breath. _She smells so good,_ his traitorous mind decided to point out at that moment, his nose teasing him with the beguiling scent of lemon and rose and spice that clung to her hair and her skin, reminding him of summer skies and warm sunshine, and -

"Andraste bless our incumbent Nevarran," Felicita was saying. "Although ... Ah, your majesty, I feel I must tell you - that is not a fruit you are holding in your hand."

"Hmm?" Nonplussed, he squeezed gently, feeling her gasp once again as something seemed to prod at his palm through the soft silk. Something that crested a roundness that fitted in the palm of his hand ... "Oh! Oh, I-I am terribly sorry, I ... I didn't mean to, um ... that is ..."

Despite the soft shake he could hear in her voice as she breathed, he felt her fingertips gently touch his lips to still his babbling apology before it could get entirely out of hand. From the other side of the door came the sound of female voices - Delphine, demanding to know where the king had gone, and Callista, denying she had ever seen him. Alistair held his breath, his face turned over his shoulder toward the door, acutely aware of Felicita's hand falling to his shoulder, the tip of her finger brushing the bare line of his throat above his collar. He could feel her breath on his jaw - surprised to feel it there, to be honest. He was taller than everyone else he knew; most women barely came up to his shoulder. _But she's not most women. Maker, what **is** that spice on her skin?_ She smelled delicious, felt rather wonderful pressed against him, hadn't yet tried to push him away or alert the arguing women outside to the fact of his presence. Did that mean ... _is she enjoying this as much as I am?_ He shouldn't be enjoying it at all, not if he was a gentleman. But sometimes it was quite nice to be able to excuse his inappropriate behavior on having spent a lifetime as a shameful secret before taking the crown.

Slowly, the voices faded away, and he felt himself relax.

"I think they've gone."

"A relief, to be sure," Felicita murmured. "Nevertheless, your majesty ... I think you should move your hand."

"Hmm? Oh!"

He flinched back from his possessively intimate touch on her person, trying to put a little space between them. Unfortunately, they weren't the only things crowding this space. His foot came down on the head of a broom, knocking him off-balance. As he swayed backward, he felt her hands grip his tunic to keep him upright, attempting to adjust his position only to put his other foot squarely into a bucket of some sort that slid as soon as his boot was squashed into it. With an tortured scrape of wood on stone, Alistair thumped back against the wall less than a foot behind him, sliding down and dragging the princess along with the unthinking grab of his hands at her waist, and felt the world shift as both feet slid out from under him. There was a complicated moment, and the suddenly painful landing, his bottom bouncing off the edge of what felt like a wooden crate before finding a place on the stone floor, legs bent awkwardly and the princess of Antiva firmly in his lap.

"Ow."

"Goodness ... your majesty, a-are you all right?"

 _Actually, I'm surprisingly fine,_ Alistair thought to himself, quietly reveling in having a very attractive woman straddling his lap with her cheek pressed to his, worrying about his physical state. _Can't I just get married now?_ He almost pouted when Felicita drew her cheek away from his, trying hard not to smile at the sensation of her hands skimming every inch of him she could reach, seeking out some kind of injury.

"Your majesty? Alistair?"

 _She called me Alistair._ Now that was a welcome surprise in itself. 

"I'm fine," he promised, utterly failing to hide the smile from his voice as he caught her hands gently. "Did I hurt you, Fabs?"

"No, I ..." In the very dim light from the bottom of the door, he thought he could see a shy smile flicker over her face. "I had a gentle landing. Thank you."

He let out a relieved breath, releasing her hands to gently rest them at her hips. It wasn't as though he could put them anywhere else, and hips were infinitely less embarrassing than ... well, than groping her as he'd already done in the dark. He couldn't quite wipe the smile from his face, though, especially when he felt her weight relax against him in the press of her hand to his chest.

"Why are you in a cupboard, anyway?"

Her soft huff of laughter brushed warm against his cheekbone as she ducked her head, her forehead almost touching his. "We were playing hide and seek with Maria," she confessed softly.

Alistair chuckled gently, taking a moment to adjust the bend of his leg beneath her rear. "Sounds as though you're having more fun today than I am."

"It is very easy to have fun with Maria," she agreed, a quiet intake of breath betraying her reaction to the shifting of his leg that slid her just that little bit closer.

Close enough to feel their breath mingling on his lips. Close enough to imagine closing the gap between them, to feel the urge to kiss her beautiful mouth here in the darkness. Close enough to feel something stirring that seemed reciprocated in the shy shudder of her breath.

Light spilled across them, the door pulling open to the tune of Maria crowing in delight.

"I found you! ... why are you on the floor?"

A familiar laugh made Alistair groan as Dem bent forward to help Felicita clamber out of his grasp with a little dignity. The princess' cheeks were burning, but there was something heartening in the sweet smile she offered him before taking Maria's hand and hurrying away. Demelza, on the other hand, was grinning down at him like the cat that ate the pigeon.

"Having fun, Longshanks?"

"I was until you opened the door," he huffed, waving a hand at her. "Give me a pull, would you? I think my backside has developed welts."

"I could always call the princess back to kiss them better," his best friend suggested, leaning down to heave him up onto his feet and steady him as he kicked the wooden bucket off his foot. "She seemed quite warm to the idea."

"Oh, Maker, don't go there," he begged laughingly. "I was almost terribly impolite."

Dem snorted cheerfully. "Didn't look like she was offended to me."

"I'm not having this conversation," Alistair decided, straightening up to look furtively along the corridor. "Delphine isn't around, is she?"

Dem grinned up at him. "Last I heard, she was running to the servants' quarters trying to find you," she told him. "I take it your little _tête-à-tête_ wasn't quite what you had in mind?"

He rolled his eyes, for once not even commenting on how perfect her Orlesian had become over the years. There were benefits to having an Orlesian lover, he was sure, but not for him, and not with Delphine as the only option.

"Please tell me you have an excuse for me never to be alone with her again."

The elven Warden chuckled, but nodded to him. "Your wish is my command," she teased, jerking her head for him to follow her back to his office. "You know that raven Zev sent back? Turns out all those numbers and letters were coordinates to information caches his network have been preparing in case you asked him about your prospective ladies. The assistant spymaster has been putting them together for a couple of days - it's all waiting in your office."

"More reading?" Alistair sighed, frowning.

It wasn't that he was illiterate - he actually quite enjoyed reading, especially history. But the sheer amount of careful reading involved in being a king had taken some of the joy out of the activity for him.

"There isn't a huge amount," Dem assured him, pushing open the door to usher him inside. "He didn't have anything on Ciara, for example."

"Of course he didn't, she's barely more than a child," Alistair scoffed, eyeing the sheaf of parchment on his desk as he approached it. "I'd be surprised if she's ever done anything even mildly out of the ordinary, even during the mess you made of Amaranthine."

"I'm never living that down, am I?" Demelza sighed in amusement, thumping into a chair. "The city's been rebuilt - if we'd lost the Vigil, there wouldn't have _been_ a city to rebuild."

"I know that," he assured his friend with a smile. "It's taken ten years, but I think everyone else knows it now, too."

"It's about time," she grumbled, reaching over to snag the first piece from the top of his parchment pile.

There was silence for a long moment as she scanned it - Dem had never been at home with the written word, but Alistair trusted her to read it carefully before she expressed anything she'd gleaned from the information in her hand. For his part, he turned his attention to the next piece of parchment, a strange thrill juddering down his spine as he noted the name. _Princess Felicita Amalia Braulia Salome._ The smile on his lips was entirely involuntary as he read on, fading in the light of what he found there.

"Bloody hell ..."

Dem's head snapped up, eyes seeking his sharply. "What?"

"Fabs ... I mean, Princess Felicita ..." Alistair groped for the right words for a moment, releasing a horrified sigh. "Her twin brother was smothered in the bed next to hers when they were six years old," he told his closest friend. "Zevran was there, he says, but ... he couldn't have been much older than her at the time, surely?"

"Well, the Crows aren't known for being gentle with their recruits," Dem pointed out through a frown. "What else does it say?"

"Kidnapped by unknown faction aged nine," Alistair murmured, still reading as he spoke. "Returned six weeks later unharmed and no ransom demanded - there's a note here; House Arainai contracted in weeks following by merchant princes unknown to hunt down mercenary group believed to have performed the unsuccessful kidnapping. One of three survivors of the massacre of princes at Seleny in 9:30. _Prevented_ the assassination of her elder brother aged thirteen by peaceful means; contract was cancelled shortly after. Since then, she's never been the target of an assassination plot, and is considered to be a neutral voice in Antivan politics. Considered an accomplished lady, and is under consideration by several merchant families as a prospective match ... Is _that_ why she's here?"

Dem was staring at him. "Who cares _why_ she's here right now, Longshanks," she pointed out. "She's been close to death all her life. _How_ she's still breathing is the more important part."

"She does carry daggers, she says," he mused doubtfully. "But none of this seems to be violent. Well, apart from the massacre part. And she survived _that_ at the age of ten?"

"I have no idea," Dem admitted, shaking her head. "It does make sense of some of her behavior, though. It's harder to kill someone who takes a genuine interest in you and your life."

"And I thought _my_ childhood was bad," Alistair muttered, rubbing a hand over his brow. He couldn't even imagine living in such a constant atmosphere of intrigue and death and coming out of it even _half_ as well adjusted as Fabs seemed to be. _Maker's breath, I really have to stop thinking of her as Fabs - it isn't her name!_

"At least you didn't spend the first yen years of your life having visions of Andraste," Dem pointed out, handing over the parchment she'd been reading.

He took it from her hand, noting that it pertained to Leona of Starkhaven. And yes, there it was - from the age of three, Leona had reported seeing Andraste in her dreams. He sighed, rolling his eyes. "I can't marry someone who is so obviously made to be a Revered Mother. Or a spy."

"Who's the spy?" Dem craned forward to look at the new parchment in his hand, snagging another from the pile as she did so.

"Who else?" Alistair said wryly. "Delphine. Apparently Gaspard sponsored her admission as a candidate, and paid a large sum of money to, and I quote, _"nobles unknown but easily guessed at"_ here in Denerim to ensure she would have a better chance than the others at the crown."

"Andraste's twisted knickers, is there no one that man won't bend over for to stay close to the top?" the elven redhead demanded in disgust. "Surely _now_ you can see why he has to go, Alistair."

"I need more than unfounded accusations to dismiss him, Dem." He sighed, shaking his head. "He's making mistakes. I'm going to invite Anora to take her seat on the council again; he won't like that."

"That is possibly the first good idea you've had all month," she told him, her tone proud even if her eyes were dancing with teasing good humor. "Read more ... I want to know _all_ the little secrets your ladies are hiding."

Alistair snorted with laughter, setting one parchment aside to take up the next, skimming the words to pass on the juiciest details about the remaining ladies to his friend. It had certainly been an interesting day, but he was almost certain it wouldn't hold a candle to tomorrow. Because tomorrow ... he had license to spend as much time as he liked with Princess Felicita.

And that was just _fab._


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicita learns a little more about the king himself, and likes what she sees.

"You are sure you don't mind? I won't be more than a hour, I hope."

Felicita smiled at the king's concerned inquiry.

"Of course I do not mind, your majesty," she assured him. "You are the king, there are many more matters to fill your time than the company of women. But I will stay, if you have no objection?"

Alistair looked surprised at her request, glancing around his study as though looking for something that might interest her. "If you are sure you want to, princess," he allowed, albeit dubiously. "It's not likely to be very entertaining."

"You do not have to entertain me, your majesty," she said softly. "I would simply like to keep you company as you work. I will not disturb you."

For a moment, she thought he might suggest she go back to the other ladies while he caught up on his paperwork - something she was loath to do, given how much Delphine had been crowing about her apparently wonderful day with him yesterday - but then he smiled a slightly lopsided smile, inclining his head to her.

"Thank you, princess. I promise, this won't take up too much of the day."

As he turned away to his desk, his secretary bending to guide him through the most urgent of the dispatches that had arrived that morning for his attention, Felicita allowed herself one long moment to admire him in silence.

He'd seemed startled when, after breakfast, she had asked if he had any work that needed to be done before he could take time for himself. Perhaps he had assumed she would be as selfish in her demand on his time as the others had been thus far. Perhaps he was even disappointed that she was not. But, as she had told the Antivan ambassador, she was not engaging in a race to become a queen, but rather to become a wife to a man she was coming to realize she rather liked. A queen made demands; a wife helped to make life easier. Completing some of his work now would mean he had less pressure, less distractions on his mind later in the day, and that was, perhaps, a little selfish of her. She wanted his attention, and this was the best way she could think of to accomplish that. Besides which, if she truly wanted him to consider her, then she should give him a small taste of what it might be like to share his time with her.

As Cormac placed papers in front of Alistair, talking him through the detail of what he was looking at, Felicita found the little basket she had asked Andra to bring by the window seat, folding herself down onto the sunny cushions to lift her sewing from the basket and resume the small project she had set herself to fill her time. It was a quiet pastime that kept her hands busy but let her mind relax into thought; needlework was something she found soothing. The feel of the cloth in her hand, the thread pulling behind the needle ... it was a skill her mother had taught her, a skill she was even now beginning to teach Maria, bringing with it memories of sitting in the window of her mother's suite in the palace in Antiva City with her sisters, listening to their mother tell them stories of Andraste and Queen Asha Campana, and of the women that that shaped Thedas as they knew it. Such memories brought with them a tender sense of calm ... something she felt strangely in need of right now.

She glanced up, her eyes finding the glow of sunlight in the king's hair, betraying the red that lurked amid the gold that crowned him naturally, following the line of sun and shadow down along the bent curve of his neck. She'd never had the opportunity to study him from so near, noting a scar on his cheek she had never noticed before, and another that stroked the side of his nose. They were old, faded to nothing more than thin lines of only slightly paler skin, raised fractionally from the sweep of his cheek and nose, but now she had seen them, she could not put them out of her mind. They were a reminder that this man had seen war up close; he had held a sword and faced death head on, and he had emerged victorious. He had given his life willingly to the Grey Wardens, yet they had given him up without a fight when the crown of Ferelden was placed on his head.

Felicita knew so little about the man before her, she realized. Oh, she knew the stories - of the Blight, of his templar training, of his recruitment into the Wardens by Rite of Conscription. But stories did not tell her of the man he was, how he had felt to be at the center of so much in those formative years of his manhood, how he had felt to be given the care of an entire kingdom purely through an accident of birth. Did he mourn his lost family, she wondered. The father he had never known, the mother no stories ever spoke of, the brother who had fallen so tragically as Ostagar ... they were his blood, yet he had never known any of them, it seemed. _Could_ you mourn a loss you felt no connection to? 

There were rumors that mentioned his closeness to the Warden-Commander lost at the Battle of Ostagar along with the king - some vulgar, to be true, but others marking a sense of family found and lost in the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. Arl Eamon made much of the fact that he had been responsible for the raising of the king in his early years, yet Fereldan rumor painted that early childhood as harsh and cold, drawing a picture of an unwanted child who had been sent to the Chantry as soon as it was feasible. Yet speculation on such rumors and reports told her nothing of the man she wanted to know, nor even why she felt the desire to know him better.

He shifted, turning his head toward the secretary standing beside him, and her gaze fell on the hand that lay relaxed against his desk. All unexpected, she felt a soft blush rise in her cheeks, hastily lifting her face toward the window even as she bit her lip to suppress her almost embarrassed smile. Desire stirred, lustful but gentle - for all that she was pure in body, as the Chantry demanded of a noble bride, Felicita knew this feeling well enough. Her lessons as a teen had covered relations between men and women extensively, all part of arming an educated woman in Antiva to be aware of their own bodies, to take charge of their own pleasure, to be able to give pleasure to the partner of their choice. She _knew_ this feeling for what it was - attraction, pure and simple, unfettered by social constraints laid upon her. She had denied it for over ten days, giving it rein only to acknowledge that Alistair was handsome enough to spark such a feeling, but after that interlude in the closet yesterday ...

The blush deepened as she lost her battle to hold in her smile, hands pressing the cloth in her grasp to her breast as she breathed with deliberate slowness. How could she forget the gentle cup of his hand, the soft squeeze as he tried to work out just where it was he had put his palm? The mortified embarrassment when he had realized and jerked away, only to fall and drag her down with him. She knew he had felt something _more_ than embarrassment; she knew what that suggestion of motion beneath her as she fell into his lap meant. But there was more to it than that ... she could remember so clearly the sensation of his careful hands not allowing her to land with the force he had experienced in the fall, the warmth of his palms against her hips, his breath ghosting against her mouth. She had never wanted so much to kiss or be kissed in her lifetime as she had in those short moments of darkness. And not once had she felt unsure or unsafe, even pressed into cramped quarters with him. Despite his accidentally wandering hand, she did not believe Alistair Theirin capable of overstepping his bounds without clear consent from the woman in his arms.

There was no point in denying it. She _liked_ Alistair - the man he was, more than the king he had to be. She liked his smile, his humor, his serious attention to the workings of his kingdom. She liked the way he sometimes stumbled over his words, so certain he was being foolish, yet could command a confidence at other times that made her feel proud of him for doing so. He was handsome, and warm, and only a little inappropriate on occasion. His eyes hid so much, and shared so much as well. _That_ was why she wanted to know him better. She wanted to know if the man behind the mask he wore by necessity was the man he seemed to be. And if she was very honest with herself, she hoped that he was. It was still just a little humiliating to know that she was one of several he would be choosing his bride from, but she could weather that calmly. She'd suffered worse and come out of it whole.

The hour came and went, Alistair still scribbling away at his work with Cormac's guidance, and Felicita felt boredom beginning to make itself known. The seams she had intended to finish were done; there was nothing in the courtyard below to hold her interest. Instead, her gaze began to wander the room, admiring the neat bookshelves stacked with a myriad of tomes, the bright tapestries bearing the heraldry of both Ferelden and the Grey Wardens, the sword and shield fixed to the wall above the hearth, the chalice standing below them on the mantle in what seemed to be a place of honor. Setting her basket aside, she rose to her feet quietly, moving to inspect the bookshelf more closely, unaware that her movement had drawn Alistair's eyes to her.

What she had thought were oddly arranged book-ends was, in fact, a collection of strange figurines. A pair of rune stones, one black and one white; a stone warrior facing a stone dragon; a demon in blackest onyx; and a strange, misshapen figure that didn't seem to have any identifying mark at all; a very old, very dry rose that looked as delicate as tissue. Upright on what must have been a custom-made stand was a hand puppet in Grey Warden armor, and beside it, hanging from a beautifully carved hand of marble, was an amulet of Andraste's holy symbol, cracked as though it had been broken and mended. Without thinking, she raised her hand, one fingertip gently touching the amulet with tender care, setting it to sway gently against the marble palm that sheltered it.

"That was my mother's."

Startled, Felicita jerked her hand back from the shelf, turning to find the king standing close by her shoulder, his secretary gone from the room so quietly she had not even noticed the motion of the door.

"I-I apologize, your majesty, I -"

Alistair shook his head, smiling. "Don't," he told her. "There's no need. I've kept you waiting an abominably long time, there's no crime in exploring to stave off the inevitable boredom."

His gentle reassurance was enough to calm her sudden guilt at being caught nosing through his belongings, her gaze flickering back to the collection of oddments on the shelf.

"The amulet was your mother's?" she asked, daring to invite him to tell her more.

"I believe so," Alistair confirmed. "At least, that is what I thought as a child. I thought it was the only thing of hers that I owned. There was some effort after I was crowned to discover the identity of my mother, but it proved inconclusive. I suppose it doesn't matter, really."

"If it matters to you, then it does matter, your majesty," Felicita murmured.

"What happened to _Alistair?"_ he asked, tilting a faint grin in her direction that made her stomach do something _very_ interesting and not a little bit distracting.

"Oh!" She bit her lip, trying not to laugh at her own presumption of the day before. "I ... You have not given me permission to use your name, your majesty -"

"Alistair," he corrected her gently.

Felicita felt the blush rise once again, softer this time, as she smiled back at him. "Alistair," she agreed. "At least when no one else may hear me."

She liked the way his name felt on her lips, and if his smile was anything to go by, he liked the way it sounded, too. How many people call him by his name, she wondered. It couldn't be very many. To most here, he was the king and nothing more. Something her father had once told her brought a pang to her heart for this king. _It is a lonely thing, to wear a crown, piccola. From the moment the crown touches your head, you are alone among the crowd._

"I do not mind if you call me Fabs," she murmured, perhaps spurred on by this reminder of the isolation she had noticed was his way of life. "I quite like it."

"You were right to tell me off, the night we met," he pointed out. "It was a dreadful thing to do to your name."

She shook her head, lips curving almost fondly as she laid her hand on his arm. "I _like_ it, Alistair."

His hand covered hers, warm and strong but so gentle in that touch. "Thank you."

For a long moment, she found herself looking into his eyes, remembering the stirring closeness they had shared the day before, half wishing for it to happen again. _If only he could make his choice now ... but of course, he cannot._ _There are still more than ten days before he is expected to do so._ She couldn't tell what he was thinking, captivated by the soft sadness hidden behind his eyes. Eyes that brightened as he raised his head to look at the shelf once again.

"Yes, the amulet," he said, taking his hand from hers once again. "I thought I'd lost it, destroyed it. I threw it at a wall in a fit of pique when Arl Eamon sent me away to the Chantry, but ... Dem found it in Redcliffe Castle. In the arl's desk. He'd ... he'd mended it."

Just hearing that put his relationship with the contentious arl into perspective for the princess. Though Eamon might now be more of a burden than a help, he had once cared for the boy Alistair had been. The lingering loyalty no doubt made the man's arrogance at court harder to countenance and to correct. Felicita smiled at the vague sense of disbelieving affection in the king's voice.

"And these other ... artifacts?" she asked curiously.

Alistair laughed, shaking his head. "All things Dem gave me during the Blight," he told her. "I was a strange boy, what can I say?"

"It is not strange to hold onto sentiment," she answered easily. "Your life has not been an easy one, Alistair. These things, they are an anchor to a time when things were simpler, and to the friend who gave them."

"You're right, they are," he agreed. "But my life hasn't been so hard, you know, not compared with -"

He stopped abruptly, glancing down at her. She raised a brow, her curiosity piqued further by the guilty look on his face.

"Compared with?" she prompted, and as the guilt deepened in his expression, sudden comprehension dawned. "Ah. Compared with mine, you believe."

Alistair winced. "I didn't ... that is, I _did_ ask someone about you, but ..." He sighed, broad shoulders sagging. "What I mean to say is, I didn't mean to sound as though I was spying on you. I wasn't! I don't even have spies, I don't think. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have -"

She laughed, shaking her head to still his apology. "You are a king, looking for a queen," she reminded him. "A man looking for a wife. It does not surprise me that you have been told of some of the more ... exciting passages of my life. Only a fool walks blind into such an event as this."

"It seems like such a violation of your privacy," he muttered, rubbing a hand against his elbow briefly.

"Such things are common knowledge in Antiva," she assured him. "Not the detail, obviously, but that they happened, and who they happened to, is something even the youngest urchin knows. Assassination, political intrigue, plots and schemes ... they are a part of the Antivan way of life. It would be remarkable indeed if I had lived so long without being caught in some nets."

"They said you survived a massacre," he pointed out, seemingly horrified and simultaneously admiring her for this moment in her life. "I-I cannot even begin to imagine ..."

Felicita felt the smile waver on her face, unconsciously turning away from him as the memories of a bloody day etched into her mind replayed themselves behind her eyes. The gorgeousness of the palace, the sense of celebration in the air, merchant princes and family members gathered for this one occasion ... the sudden terror as knives were drawn, the fear and shock as men began to fall, blood staining marble and cloth. Hiding beneath a table with her little sister, eyes squeezed shut, listening to death all around them. Then a gentle hand slick with the blood of the dead drawing both of them from their hiding place, masked men and women guiding them back to their mother and leaving them there, surrounded by the dead heirs of too many houses, including their own ...

"I do not like to remember Seleny," she said quietly, her voice tight with the effort of not shedding tears again for the brothers she had lost that day. Her voice seemed, even to her own ears, to come from far away. "It was my birthday."

"Fabs ..."

She shook her head, forcing the upset away behind a smile that was forced only for a moment, lifting her eyes to meet the shocked concern in his gaze.

"I'm so sorry." Alistair reached for her hands, warming her fingers with the heat of his palms as he held her gaze. "I shouldn't have ... I am _so_ sorry I mentioned it."

"How could you not?" she asked gently. "Such things are not easy to speak of, and ... and I would prefer this day not to be marred with my darker memories. I want to know you."

He stared at her, and she was suddenly struck with the realization that this hadn't even occurred to him as a possibility. He'd allowed this ridiculous charade to be arranged, with himself as the prize, and had not once even considered that the candidates invited might want more than a crown themselves.

 _"Why?"_ he asked, apparently dumbfounded. "That is ... why are you even here? It's an awful idea."

"It is ... a little humiliating, yes," she allowed, squeezing his hands gently. "I did not know that this was to be a competition of sorts until I arrived in Ferelden. Indeed, I had made up my mind not to engage in this strange manner of finding a bride. But ... I have changed my mind, and if there is to be a hope of building a life with the bride you choose, surely you would want them to care more for you, than for the crown on your head?" She smiled at him. "We are not all here just to be a queen, Alistair. I can name some who would prefer to be a wife first."

"And ..." He seemed to hesitate for a moment before venturing on. "And would _your_ name be among them?"

"Yes," she told him honestly. "Though I will not pretend that I am ready in my knowing of you to say whether we would be a good match for life, I _do_ want to discover if that may be the case. And should you choose another as a better match for you, then I will dance happily at your wedding, glad to have made a friend."

This didn't seem to be the answer he was looking for. Felicita had to try very hard not to laugh as the King of Ferelden _goggled_ at her from less than two feet away, apparently at a loss as to how to speak coherently for a few moments. When speech finally did come back to him, what came out _did_ make her laugh.

"How are you so _nice_ all the time?"

"Oh, Alistair ..." It took a moment to overcome her giggles at his blunt question. "Because I learned very young that it is the best way to protect myself, and because I like it when people like me. I am not always nice, but I am more readily forgiven for fits of temper because they happen so rarely."

"But how does being nice protect you?" he asked, drawing her over to sit with him in the window-seat, genuinely eager to understand her reasoning.

"The more friends you have, the fewer enemies will move against you," she tried to explain. "The more obedient and pliant you are to those who hold you in their palm, the less they will want to harm you. And, of course, the more people who listen to your voice, the more influence you have over their thoughts, so long as you do not exercise it too often."

He let out a soft huff through an uncomprehending smile. "It sounds so simple when you put it like that."

She shrugged, tilting her head as she answered. "People are people, no matter their race or their rank. I have never met anyone who did not want to be liked, to have a friend, and I see no reason why I should withhold my friendship from anyone just because of who they were born to be."

She glanced down at her hand in his, unable to prevent herself from drawing her fingertips over his palm as she spoke.

"It took me a long time to learn that," she admitted. "I was not a friend to elves or dwarves, or anyone who was below a merchant for many years. But the first person to save my life was an elf, and he did it for no reason that I could see. I should have died the night my twin was killed, purely for waking when I did, but the boy who was watching me did not tell the assassin that I had woken. He just put his finger to his lips, and kept quiet, and because of him, I lived to see the dawn. It was still many years before I grew to understand that kindness is something that only grows with the giving, but I will never forget that first act of kindness."

"I wonder if it's possible for a king to be kind as well as respected," he murmured, his thoughts clearly drawing him away from her.

"I think the _only_ way for a king to be respected is if he is kind and just," Felicita answered softly. "To be any other way is to be feared, and you are not a feared king, Alistair. If you could only have heard the people we met when we were traveling from Amaranthine ... they are so _proud_ of you, and so fond. They were courting all of us on your behalf long before we reached the capital."

Alistair let out an embarrassed laugh, his ears turning that charming shade of pink for a moment under her gaze. "I'm not going to be able to convince you that I'm a buffoon who only seems to be able to talk consistently to dogs, am I?"

"Not yet."

The vaguely wounded look on his face sent her into fits of giggles, her laughter drawing the offense from her tease to bring a brighter smile to his expression in turn.

"Teasing the king, are we?" he demanded in amusement, rising to his feet. "Right then, Princess Fabs, let's see how coherent _you_ are around dogs."

She laughed harder as he pulled her up beside him, her hand captured firmly in his own as he headed for the door to his study and out into the corridor beyond. Not even the sight of Maria and Ceri peering around the door to the library as they passed could dampen her smile - a smile that deepened at the thumbs up Ceri sent her way before Alistair whisked her around the corner and out of sight. If this was a sign of what the rest of the day would be like, Felicita didn't mind it at all. Even when Alistair lifted her bodily into the kennels where the mabari pups were eager to scramble all over anyone who came within paws' reach and clambered in behind her. Because he was smiling; because he was letting himself just _be_.

And that was what she wanted to see.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alistair ends the day happily.

There was something magical in Fabs' laughter, Alistair had decided by the end of the day set aside for her. She gave it so willingly, but never dishonestly, a sweet harmony to her seemingly genuine interest in him over his crown. He was still intimidated by the sheer fact of her having been born a blood-royal, but over the course of the day, as he had relaxed with her, he'd come to realize that if _she_ didn't mind his uncertain parentage, then he was a bit of an idiot for holding it front and center so much. After all, no one would be able to plant the label of "bastard" on his children, and that was what truly mattered here.

Not that he was thinking of proposing to her, not at all. Not yet, anyway. He still had one more lady to subject to a full day of his company before the council would even begin to countenance his narrowing the remaining candidates. And Fabs wasn't the only one he'd enjoyed his time with - Ceri had been pure devilish entertainment from dawn to dusk, but that was mainly because he'd spent that day helping her cement her plans to entice Fergus out of his widowhood; and Callista, too, had been enjoyable company, despite his nerves in being that close to a bosom that was entirely too comfortable half-clothed.

Ceri was fun because there was no pressure there; she wasn't interested in him or the crown, and it had been easy to spend the day as a friend. Callista _had_ come with that pressure, but he hadn't relaxed so much into being himself with her as he had with Fabs. The princess had been very clear about not needing to be entertained, and so, they had spent the day in the mabari kennels, in the gardens, up on the walls of the castle, just talking. He couldn't remember the last time he had spoken so freely with anyone. It was ... well, it was _nice_ , but it was more than a little exposing, too. He felt as though he might have given away too much today, but each time he felt uncertain about it, he looked into her eyes and her smile swept that feeling away.

But there was a vague sense of unease he couldn't quite set aside, rooted in her confession that her pleasantness was an act of self-defense. Did she _really_ like him, or was she protecting herself against him somehow? Did he intimidate her as much as she intimidated him? He wanted to believe that she was genuine; that her smiles, her laughter, were honest answers to his occasionally ridiculous humor, but ... could he afford to be so naive? It wasn't his experience that being nice lead to safety; no, it lead to more people thinking you were an easy target. Yet Zevran had been very clear - Felicita had not been the target of any plot of assassination attempt for a decade. Was that truly because she was so ... nice?

He couldn't get his head around it and, if he was honest with himself, he didn't really want to. What mattered was that it worked for her, and pondering why it shouldn't work meant considering the possibility of her death in the not very distant future. That was hard to contemplate, especially when she was warm and soft on his arm, vibrant company who had not insisted on remaining with him so late as their day had ended up being. It had just ... happened, a natural progression of time together that had been curtailed only by the sound of the nightwatchmen in the city calling out that it was eleven o'clock. A _very_ late evening, even for him.

Alistair wasn't going to examine just _why_ he was walking her back to the ladies' quarters, newly cleaned and refreshed after the fire incident, when he had allowed the others to make their own way back when their time had ended. All he was permitting himself to admit was a strange reluctance to watch her walk away from him, that was all. But once they reached the guarded door, he had no choice but to let her slip from his arm.

"Thank you, your majesty." Felicita curtsied to him, the tease in her eyes betraying that she had done it just to see him fidget once again.

"You enjoy doing that a little too much, princess," he accused mildly, chuckling as she laughed once again.

"It is rare to meet a man who enjoys being teased as much as he enjoys teasing," she countered, blinking tired eyes at him. It had been a very long day; no wonder she was a little sleepy.

"It is rare to meet a woman who is happy to let me tease her," he answered, glancing awkwardly at the guards on either side, who were doing their best not to be seen to listen. "I have enjoyed today, princess. Thank you."

"As have I, your majesty," she assured him, her voice rich with warmth. "Even the dogs."

"I did not tell any of them to climb under your skirt," he defended himself in amusement. "I maintain that was your own fault for wearing one."

Felicita's smile suddenly flashed into a wild grin before she drew it under control. "I could take that a number of ways, but I won't," was her answer. "I should go to bed. I am sure the last thing you need is poor temper from your nobles because one of the ladies is falling asleep during the horse racing tomorrow."

He rolled his eyes, not particularly looking forward to that himself. Another one of Eamon's planned activities - a tried and tested noble activity, certainly, but not one that the king actually enjoyed watching. Mainly because it meant that Eamon could jabber in his ear all day about whatever was on the old man's mind, and Alistair didn't have much option but to sit and take it.

"As you wish, princess." One hand took hers as he bowed to her, daring to brush his lips over the slender line of her fingers before releasing her. "Sweet dreams, Fabs."

A small flicker of something that definitely wasn't triumph leapt in his belly as her cheeks flushed, her little smile showing off the dimple that made naughty images prance naked through his mind as she hugged the hand he had kissed to her breast.

"Good night, Alistair."

Blushing, he stepped back as she slipped out of sight, waiting until the door was closed behind her before turning to make his way toward the stairs that would take him up to the loneliness of the royal apartments. Strange as it seemed, he had enjoyed falling asleep to the sound of other people living on the royal floor with him, if only for a couple of days; waking up to the sound of servants talking about this lady or that lady; returning after his morning training to the tune of the shared breakfast between the ladies that abounded with quiet chatter and domestic warmth. And now they had been returned to the rooms originally set aside for them, his own quarters seemed desolate, devoid of anything even approaching warmth. He didn't even have Lady to keep him company now - Dem's mabari, Monster, had got Alistair's favorite hound pregnant again, which meant that the kennel master had decreed she had to stay in the kennels until her pups were weaned.

But that was part of the reason for this month, wasn't it? To choose a wife, someone who would be able to share his loneliness and hopefully want to alleviate it a little. He only had one lady left to spend a single day with, and after that, he was sure the Landsmeet would start to demand he make his decision. But was he even ready to do that? Was one day of close companionship and twenty days of pre-arranged group events really enough to choose the companion of his life with any degree of success? He sighed, shaking his head. Maybe Dem was right, after all. Maybe he _should_ insist on organizing some of the remaining days himself, if only to weed out those remaining who wouldn't be able to even pretend to enjoy some of the things he, personally, enjoyed a great deal.

Unbidden, a smile came to his face as he recalled Fabs in the kennels. She'd never met a mabari before coming to Ferelden, and he had put her in the midst of the rambunctious weaned pups, all of which wanted to play or be cuddled, to find someone they could imprint on and be close to. She'd been totally at a loss, but with a little guidance, had submitted to sitting down and being little more than a climbing frame for the affection little monsters scrabbling all over them. She couldn't have been at home in that situation, but she'd borne it with a smile, and he thought she might even have come to enjoy herself a little. He hoped she had. _Am I just fooling myself here? ... I need to talk to Dem._

Already twelve steps up, he stopped, frowning as he considered the likelihood of being able to locate his elven friend at this time of night. Then a soft sound caught his attention, his frown drifting toward concern over confusion. He held himself in place, ears straining ... and there it was again. A quiet breath, drawn in swiftly but broken, female and quiet. Someone was crying.

Now, most people would just assume it was none of their business and continue on their way. Alistair, however, was not _most people_ , and despite his discomfort with crying women, he couldn't bear not knowing what was wrong. After all, it might be something he could fix. Admittedly, that wasn't very likely, but he would hate himself for not finding out. He turned back down the stairs, pausing on the landing to identify where the soft tears were coming from, his ears guiding him left along the passage to a door that stood half open. Tilting his head, he peered through to the covered balcony beyond, noting a blonde-haired form in the shadows, hunched over on herself as her shoulders shuddered.

"Lady Ciara?"

The girl from Amaranthine jumped violently, straightening her back even as she hastily scrubbed her fingers against her cheeks, trying to hide the evidence that she had been crying. In one hand was a crumpled letter that she thrust behind her back as she turned to face the king.

"Y-your majesty! I'm sorry, was I - was I too loud?"

Alistair's frown was deeply concerned. As shy as Ciara was, she had been improving in confidence these past weeks. It felt _wrong_ to find her crying all alone out here, away from the friends she had made among the ladies. _Is that my fault,_ he wondered. _Would she have been alone if Fabs had been there for her to confide in?_

"No, you were very quiet," he assured her gently. "What's wrong? Has something happened to upset you?"

"Oh! Oh, no, your majesty, I ..." Her eyes flickered down to the arm she held behind her back, and for a moment, she looked as though she might cry again. "It's nothing."

Alistair raised a brow. "Yes," he said slowly. "I see it now. You are standing alone in the dark, crying over nothing."

To his dismay, she sniffled, fresh tears falling as she hastily turned away.

"Oh, please ... don't cry," he pleaded with the girl, reaching out to touch her shoulder. "Please. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have ... "

He rummaged inside his tunic, pulling out a pristine handkerchief. For all that his manners had definitely improved over the last decade or so, Alistair still hadn't mastered the art of pulling out a handkerchief when he needed one. He _carried_ one, but he couldn't actually recall a time he had ever used it. He pressed the clean linen square into Ciara's hand, feeling like an idiot.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered, her voice muffled as she wiped at her leaking eyes. "It's just ... I shouldn't tell you."

"Would it make it easier if I ordered you to tell me?" he suggested, rubbing his hand across her shoulders in a somewhat hapless attempt to be both respectful and comforting now he seemed to have made things worse. "I'd offer to get the crown, but it's downstairs, and I _think_ you might run away if I leave now."

The sound that emerged from the girl at his side was almost a laugh. Whatever it was, it didn't bring more tears with it, and he thought he saw the hint of a smile as she lowered the handkerchief from her face. She drew her other hand out from behind her back, fingers rippling over the crumpled parchment in her grasp. That seemed to be the source of her distress, but he couldn't exactly take it away from her and read it. He wasn't _that_ socially inept.

"A letter from your parents?" he asked, hoping to prompt her into at least telling him why she was so upset. He hoped it wasn't something he could have prevented from happening.

Ciara nodded, sniffing to clear her nose as she calmed herself. "My-my father," she clarified. "He's very encouraging, but ..."

Alistair dipped his head, trying to get a decent view of her expression. "But?"

Her lower lip was wobbling again as she lifted her eyes to his. "He says if I don't become queen, I have to marry Bann Ceorlic's grandson!" she burst out, very nearly wailing at the sheer horror she apparently felt at the thought of this.

Alistair felt his mouth drop open for a moment. _Which one is Ceorlic's grandson? He's got two, hasn't he?_ Searching his memory, he could bring the names to mind, but not which name applied to which face. One, he knew, was virtually a carbon copy of Ceorlic, all bluster until directly confronted with evidence, but the other seemed to be quieter and less prone to change his mind with the wind. But even so, arranging a marriage just in case the marriage wanted didn't happen? That was definitely skirting the narrow edge of propriety.

"And ... you don't want to marry him?" he ventured uncertainly.

"I don't know anything about him," Ciara protested. "I don't even know his name. All I know is who his grandfather is, and Bann Ceorlic is-is ... he's not ... nice."

"No, he is definitely not nice," Alistair agreed, still patting her back as his mind raced. _Honestly, the political maneuvering in this court has got way out of hand._ "But he is not his grandson. You might like him."

"I don't _know_ him," she insisted, shaking her head. "I've never even _seen_ him, and my father says that ... that the wedding is set for the middle of next month, and-and ..."

Alistair's brows drew together in a disapproving frown. "No, that isn't appropriate," he agreed quietly. "You should be allowed to have a say in who your life will be tied to, Ciara."

"I didn't have a say in coming he - oh ..." She flashed him a terrified glance. "Not that I'm not grateful to be here, your majesty, it-it truly is a great honor to have been invited -"

"- you'd just rather not have to marry a old man?" he asked with a grin.

The look on her face was priceless. He'd known she was nervous of the court and the nobles, and especially nervous of him. It didn't take a genius to guess what was preying on her mind - she was seventeen years old, a minor nobleman's daughter, and the king was fifteen years her senior. Of course she didn't want to marry him; all the noble and heroic deeds in the world couldn't close that age gap. And the stories of him wouldn't have helped - he'd become king when she was eight years old, for Maker's sake. She had spent most of her life hearing far-fetched tales of the Grey Warden who had become the King of Ferelden with the help of his elven Warden friend. No wonder she was trying so hard not to lie to him as she stuttered her way into an apology for thinking him old.

He held up a hand, his smile warm as he looked down at her. "It's all right, Ciara," he assured her in amusement. "Believe it or not, I don't mind. And I might have a solution to your other problem, if you would allow me?"

Swallowing her continued apology, the girl from Amaranthine snapped her mouth shut, pale eyes curious in the shadows. Alistair patted her shoulder gently.

"Since this man is Bann Ceorlic's grandson, he's a member of a major noble house," he told her, "and as such, they have to ask me for permission for him to get married. Why don't I invite the offending grandson to court for the rest of the month and give you a chance to get to know him a little? I will, of course, deny the permission if your mind is unchanged ... and postpone it for as long as you need, should you discover he isn't a toad disguised as a noble."

Ciara was staring at him in disbelief. "You ... you would do that for me, your majesty?" she asked, her amazement just a little embarrassing to look at directly.

"Why wouldn't I?" he answered, only a little uncomfortably. "Look ... if it will cheer you up, I'll order the whole thing called off right now. Emasculate you from your father's interfering, if necessary."

The amazement was still there on Ciara's face, but now her lips were twitching toward a smile, laughter edging out the distress. "You'll ... _emasculate_ me?"

He stared at her for a long moment, his expression blank. Then -

"Emancipate!" His hand landed on the railing of the balcony with a thump as he chuckled, shaking his head. "Emancipate you, not ... I can't emasculate you, you don't have a ... Well, I wouldn't know if you did, but I assume you don't."

Looking like an idiot was worth it to see her tears dry up and hear her giggle at his fumbling. "No, your majesty, I-I don't have ... one of those," she assured him, muffling her giggles in the handkerchief.

"Well, that's settled then." Alistair cleared his throat, feeling a fool once again. It was an entirely too familiar sensation, but it had made the girl smile again. That felt better. "No more talk of reluctant weddings, my lady. That's an order."

"Yes, your majesty." Ciara dropped a smiling curtsy. "Thank you."

He nodded to her, chuckling a little again at his failure to grasp his own language. "You are very welcome. Now it's late, and tomorrow is likely to be a very long day. Off you go."

"Yes, your majesty."

With a last curtsy, she whirled away, slipping back through the door and presumably to the ladies' quarters, leaving him out there in the cool darkness. He leaned forward onto the railing, looking out over the city, breathing in the whisper of hearth fires on the air. All in all, this had been a surprisingly good day. A faint smile touched his lips as he cast his mind back over it, lingering on Fabs' smile, how comfortable her hand had felt on his arm. How happy Ciara had seemed with the promise that she wouldn't have to marry either an old man or an idiot grandson. Yes, a very good day, in all. It wasn't often he exercised his kingly authority without far too much advice, but sometimes it was for the best.

_Could be you're a better king than you think, your majesty. And in seventeen days, there'll be someone smiling beside you. Won't that be nice?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, my loves, the next chapter will be delayed, though hopefully not by too long. I set myself a month's challenge for another character for May, so she's my priority for the next 31 days, but never fear, I will be writing around her to keep this one going, too!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicita realizes she’s in deeper than she thought, and experiences just a little self-doubt.

Felicita could not honestly put her hand on her heart and say she enjoyed watching horse racing. It would be a different matter if she were allowed to be more than a spectator, though she doubted she had the skill to ride the beautiful Ferelden breeds that were thundering around the circular track cut into the Gathering fields outside Denerim's walls. They were beautiful horses - thicker in the leg and neck than she was used to, but no less graceful or swift for their added muscle. Unfortunately, watching young noblemen gambling on whether or not their particular horse was going to beat the others was no more enthralling than the racing itself.

But if the king - _Alistair_ , she reminded herself - if Alistair had to endure it, then so would she, and she would do it with grace. That seemed to be the motto of the other ladies as well; even Leona had been persuaded to join them in the cold air outside the city today, though Felicita privately thought that might have had something to do with the letter the Starkhaven girl had received from her city's prince the day before. Leona had not engaged in courting the king at all thus far - no doubt her sponsors were growing concerned at that lack of interest. And why should she? It was obvious to anyone who spoke to her that Leona should have been dedicated to the Chantry years ago. Her faith was _fire_ , with all the warmth and none of the destruction. No doubt a devout queen would suit the Chantry, but Felicita had her doubts that it would suit the king.

A king who was not enjoying himself today, either, if his expression was anything to go by. She lifted her eyes to the dais where Alistair sat among the worthies of his court, a sympathetic wince on her face for the stiff way he held himself, the carefully blank expression on his handsome features. She could not guess what Arl Eamon was saying, unfamiliar with the politics of Ferelden as she was, but the man had been talking near-constantly for at least an hour, likely more. Whatever he had to say, it did not seem to be to Alistair's liking, but the king was not a man who would openly show disfavor without distinct cause, even to someone who appeared to be pushing his luck. His eyes met hers briefly and, without pausing for thought, she smiled at him, inclining her head just enough to acknowledge that glance. She thought she saw his lips tighten into a harried smile for a bare moment, her heart thumping at even that tiny sign of favor.

Maria, holding her hand, looked up at her smile and giggled, in turn bringing a wider smile to Felicita's face.

"You really like Mr. Kingness, don't you?" the child asked innocently.

Felicita felt the blush before it made itself known, sitting herself down to wrap an arm about the little girl fondly.

"I do like him, Maria," she agreed softly. "But I do not know if I like him enough to marry him."

"Well, it seems obvious that he likes _someone_ enough to marry them."

The princess looked up, surprised to find Delphine inserting herself into the conversation. The Orlesian lady had steadfastly refused to be friendly to any of them for the last two weeks and more, yet here she was, apparently deciding to change her mind. Blonde and busty, and decidedly put out by the lack of attention she was receiving, Delphine narrowed her focus onto the princess and Maria.

"Apparently, his majesty was seen with one of our number _after_ he brought you back last night, your highness," she said with something of a sneer. "Laughing and embracing in the shadows. It is despicable behavior - he should simply name her his chosen bride and allow us to go home instead of continuing this humiliating farce."

Felicita blinked in surprise. She wasn't given to believing much that came out of Delphine's mouth, and this was not going to be an exception.

"How would you know this, Lady Delphine?" she asked, choosing not to mention that her conversation had been private. The sooner Delphine vented her spleen and was gone, the better for all concerned.

"The servants gossip all the time, your highness," the Orlesian girl told her, with just a hint more condescension than Felicita was prepared to put up with from her. "The king was seen with one of our number late last night, hiding away on the balcony outside our quarters. And who was the last to return last night but little Madame Ciara? It is _brazen_ behavior."

"That is a little hypocritical coming from you, Lady Delphine," Felicita said, her voice unexpectedly sharp. "Perhaps if you learned to dress yourself more modestly, you would have better luck at holding a conversation with the gentleman you wish."

"My dear princess, _I_ am not the one who bored him so greatly that he immediately took refuge in another's arms the moment I was out of sight," Delphine countered, with a creditable attempt at a superior tone.

"No," Felicita answered. " _You_ are the one he ran away from and hid in a cupboard to escape."

It was a petty thing to say, and definitely beneath her, but she felt suddenly off-balance. She _had_ heard some of the gossip that morning herself, dismissing it as nothing more than gossip, assuring herself that Alistair had likely been talking to Demelza, not one of the other ladies. But it had planted a doubt, and having Delphine, of all people, insist that it was truth pricked at her pride. Had he not enjoyed the day as much as he claimed to? Was the reason he had walked her back to the door that he wanted to be able to quickly join the woman he actually wanted to marry? And if he had made his decision already, then Delphine was, unfortunately, quite right - extending this charade was even more humiliating for the women than it was to begin with.

Felicta could feel her good mood crashing as Delphine huffed and spluttered and walked away, leaving her to try and rescue at least a smile for Maria as the child continued her conversation as though they had not been interrupted at all.

"Because if you like him, and he likes you, then you could stay here, and _I_ could stay here with you and with him, and we could be all together ..."

Her pride was hurt, Felicita was sure of it. To come from such an enjoyable day, to have spent so many hours in his company and come to appreciate his humor, his kindness, at a personal level, only to discover that it had meant so little to him that he had left her at the door and run to the arms of another woman ... it stung. But her pride had been hurt before, and she had never felt her heart ache like this in response. Did she truly just _like_ Alistair? Or had she been foolish enough to become infatuated with him, to merge her delight in his robust country and people with her enjoyment of his company, her appreciation of his face and form? _Sweet Maker, have I done something too foolish even for a princess ... am I falling in love with a man who has already given his heart to a woman I consider a friend?_

And what of that friend? Ciara had been brighter today, certainly; less afraid of her own shadow, confident enough to hold her own in conversation with nobles that had intimidated her before now. With Delphine's snide insinuations cantering through her mind, Felicita could not help but feel resentful of her younger friend's newfound confidence. Jealous, even, of the apparent warmth between Ciara and the king. And she was ashamed of herself for feeling it, too; ashamed of herself for pretending that she was not interested in the humiliating contest she found herself in, only to find herself deeply invested ... and already among the losers. Angry with herself for laying so much blame on others, when she had only herself to blame for the loss of her heart in such a short time. Whether it was truly love, or just the hopeful beginning, it had been quashed, and the pain made for sharp unhappiness settling in her heart.

"... don't you think, Ciara?" Maria's voice broke into the princess' selfish thoughts, drawing her attention to the fact that the young lady in question had joined them. "Don't you think it would be lovely?"

The golden-blonde Ferelden girl smiled brightly in answer. "It would be wonderful, Maria," she agreed enthusiastically. "We have all become such good friends; it will be a shame when we have to say goodbye."

Pulling herself together with a sharply silent scolding, Felicita roused herself to join the conversation. "You, at least, may not have to say goodbye," she pointed out to Ciara. "You will remain at court, surely?"

"I believe so, yes," Ciara admitted, a hint of her shyness showing through for a moment. "The king was kind enough to extend an invitation to me. I don't think he knows quite how to cope with a crying woman."

Despite her jealousy, Felicita felt the stirrings of concern for her friend at this, reaching out to touch her hand. "You have been crying? _Cara mia_ , what has happened to upset you?"

Ciara smiled, shaking her head as she squeezed the princess' hand. "My father tried to arrange a marriage with someone I've never even seen before," she confessed quietly. "I would have told you - I _wanted_ to talk to you about it, but you were having such a wonderful time with the king. Every time I saw you yesterday, you looked so happy together, so comfortable with each other. I didn't want to interrupt that, and I didn't want anyone else to tease me about it, so ... I feel dreadful for it, but I did my crying in what I thought was a private place, and ..."

"And the king found you there when he left me?" The sense of relief that came with this knowledge was also just a little shameful, a spiteful little reminder that she was not so detached as she would like people to believe.

"He ... he was very kind to me," the Ferelden girl said softly. "He didn't have to give me his time at all, it was so late, but ... well, I told him why I was upset, and ..." She laughed a little self-consciously. "He told me I don't have to marry anyone I don't want to. He said he would deny my father the permission he needs to marry me off without my consent. I don't know how to repay him."

 _So he has removed any obstacle between himself and his chosen bride with her consent._ An assumption, certainly, but this was the clearest sign Felicita had heard of any preference shown by the king. So much for her hopes raised after a single day. But for Ciara, she could smile and be happy. She would make certain she was.

"I imagine that there _is_ a way he will be very pleased for you to repay such a kindness," the princess told her friend gently, squeezing her hand. "It is a rare man who will do so much for anyone. You are very lucky."

"I know." Ciara sighed happily, rolling her eyes as the horses thundered past once again. "I don't think Ferelden knows how lucky we are to have a king who cares so much, even for the least of us."

"You are hardly the least of your countrymen, Ciara."

Perhaps there was an edge in her tone she had not intended, for Ciara's smile faded as she turned to look more closely at Felicita's face. It was a struggle to keep her expression composed, not wanting to give her friend even a glimpse of the envious ache that throbbed inside.

"I still don't want to marry _him_ , you know," the younger woman pointed out, rather more bluntly than most people would have advised. "And he _did_ make it very clear that he wouldn't want me forced into marriage with _anyone_. He was in a wonderful mood, and it was all because of you, I'm sure."

Felicita patted her hand gently. "Not everyone's heart is as pure as yours, Ciara," she said in a soft tone. "But thank you."

No wonder Alistair was showing a preference for this young beauty from his own shores, she reflected. Despite the hardship of much of her lifetime, Ciara shone amid the nobles of Ferelden, young and sweet and easy to love. She would make him a good wife, Felicita knew, and she would be a beloved queen, one of their own, all golden hair and smiling blue eyes. But despite her own words to the contrary only a day ago, the princess knew now that she would not be happy to dance at their wedding. For the first time since leaving Antiva a month before, she desperately wanted to go home, to the familiarity of danger and intrigue, where her heart had never been caught up in the scheming all around her. To have the comfort of her mother’s love and her father’s wisdom, and be away from this place that had opened her heart only to prick it with pain.

"Forgive me, I have a slight headache," she said abruptly. "I should get out of the sun."

Maria squinted up at the overcast sky. "But it isn't sunny ..."

"Shh," Ciara told the child, reaching to take her hand. "Let's leave the princess to the quiet for a little while, shall we? Sometimes it doesn't need to be sunny for your head to start hurting."

She cast a worried glance back at Felicita as they walked away, but the princess was staring across the field, to where the horses were walking to warm their muscles for the next race. The face she presented was blank, perfectly composed ... but Ciara couldn't help thinking she might have put her foot in it somewhere in that conversation. Felicita seemed almost ... sad. But maybe that was just the effect of a sudden headache. She couldn't think of any other reason why the princess' good spirits should suddenly dip so low. After all, the king was clearly smitten with her, everyone could see it.

But could she?


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alistair does what a king does best (in theory) and encounters something he wasn’t expecting.

There was nothing worse than letting Maria down, Alistair had decided. But since this particular instance of letting her down actually involved her future, he thought he was allowed to feel slightly less guilty about it on the whole. That still didn't make telling her that their playtime was going to have to be postponed any easier.

"But ... you said we could play ..."

There was the pout, and the big eyes, and Alistair could feel the guilt coursing through him as he crouched down beside her.

"I know I did," he told her, sure that the best way to get through this was to admit he had done wrong and make sure he made it up to her later. "I'm a terrible cad, and you have every right to be angry with me. To make it up to you, I will set aside my entire afternoon tomorrow. Is that enough to earn your forgiveness? Please, please, pretty please, oh gorgeous little mischief Maria?"

The pout didn't last long in the face of his cajoling, breaking into giggles as she threw her arms around his neck and kissed his shirt. Alistair grinned, hugging the little girl fondly in return.

"All right," she conceded. "But only if we get the whole afternoon, and you do the horsey thing."

"Again?"

But even he couldn't feign weariness with her favorite trick, which was to ride him like a horse until someone pointed out how undignified it was for the King of Ferelden to be galloping around the palace neighing. Alistair chuckled, nodding as he rose to stand once again.

"I bow to your whim, little lady," he promised her, raising his eyes to find Princess Fabs standing to one side. Unconsciously, his face lit up with a bright smile as he took Maria's hand to escort her to the princess' custody. "I give the marvelous madame of mischief into your care, Fabs."

The Antivan woman's smile seemed unenthusiastic in answer, a far cry from the warmth of the day before. "Thank you, your majesty," she answered, polite but cool.

Alistair's smile faltered. "Is there something wrong?" he asked, unable to keep himself from inquiring. "You seem ... out of sorts."

"Nothing that time will not heal, your majesty," she assured him, taking Maria's hand into her own.

"Alistair," he corrected her. "My name is Alistair."

"It does not seem appropriate that I call you by your name," Felicita told him quietly, glancing toward the ladies waiting for her, namely Ciara, Callista, and Ceridwyn. "You are the king, and I am merely a guest in your home."

Alistair stared at her, nonplussed by this odd sense of detachment. She'd been so warm, so lovely, and now ...

"Have I offended you, princess?" he pressed, his hand hesitating between them, wanting to take her hand but knowing that to do so would result in gossip he wasn't quite ready for. "If I have, there was no intention to -"

"Alistair!"

His jaw clenched at the peremptory call from behind him. Only one of his nobles did that, and with this unexpected council meeting looming before him, it did not bode well for the tone of the evening ahead. Felicita's expression turned to a frown as she looked past him to Arl Eamon, her gentle eyes hard for a long moment until Alistair heard his uncle stutter an apology. _I really should learn how she does that._

"Your majesty ... I mean. Your council is waiting."

 _Let them wait,_ Alistair thought irritably. _Fabs is upset about something and she won't tell me what it is._ But Fabs was not going to tell him, it seemed, already lowering into a curtsy with Maria.

"We will not take up any more of your time, your majesty," she promised, her smile brightening as she looked down at her little companion. "We have things to do, don't we?"

Maria's face lit up. "Painting things?" she asked, squealing happily as Felicita nodded.

"Dare I ask?" Alistair grinned down at her.

Maria offered him a sweet smile in return. "No, because it's a _secret._ "

"Ah, well, a lady must be allowed her secrets," he agreed affectionately. His gaze rose to meet Fabs' once again. "Though I hope she would share some of those secrets with those who care to know them."

He was pleased to see her smile in answer, though it was still not the smile he recalled from just a day ago.

"A lady would share everything with the one who loves her," she informed him candidly. "And it would be a pleasure to have such trust."

"It would," he agreed, relaxing his concern just a little, though confusion still tugged at his heart. There was a pointed cough from behind him, and he sighed, rolling his eyes. "Forgive me, I really must go. Enjoy your evening, ladies."

He bowed to them - little lady, princess, and friends - and turned to stalk past Eamon toward the council chamber, inwardly berating his uncle. He'd never yet managed to say the words out loud, but just the fact that he was playing what he would like to say through his mind was a sign that things were definitely beginning to come to a head in that relationship. It was time Eamon stopped reaching for power that was never his to dream for, and with luck, this session would make it blindingly clear that the arl's star was fading.

That luck was definitely with him, it seemed. As soon as the doors were closed, Eamon started.

"What is _she_ doing here?" he demanded, just barely preventing himself from pointing at Anora, seated demurely at the privy council table. "This is a privy council meeting."

"Teyrna Mac Tir is here at the king's invitation, Arl Eamon," Fergus Cousland said sternly, dropping into his own seat opposite Anora and beside Shianni Tabris.

"She resigned her seat!" Eamon protested, but didn't get any further.

Demelza had just walked in through the door he had closed behind them, her own closing sounding rather more final than his had. The elven Warden and Hero of Ferelden offered him a brittle, insincere smile.

"Oh, has the bitching started already?" she asked innocently. "What a shame, I do enjoy watching elderly men behaving like bigoted old farts in company."

Shianni didn't even try to hide her snort of laughter at this announcement; even Alistair had to fight not to let his uncle see how widely he was smiling. The privy council was a small group of trusted friends, and met _very_ rarely - what they would be discussing was actually what Alistair would usually discuss with Eamon, Shianni, and his secretary, Cormac. Eamon had learned not to dismiss Shianni reasonably early on; it appeared that he had forgotten he was not the only voice in Alistair's sphere. While Fergus did not often have the leisure to come to the capital and join them, and Dem was a rare face in Denerim too, they both had as much, if not more, right to sit on this council than the arl himself.

"Do sit down, uncle," Alistair suggested, taking a seat himself.

He watched as Dem placed herself quite deliberately next to Shianni, leaving the only vacant seat the one directly beside Anora. Eamon's jaw twitched, but he kept his mouth shut, sitting down stiffly next to the teryna who, it had to be said, didn't look any happier with the seating arrangements.

Alistair nodded to each of them, sobering his expression. He wasn't wholly sure this council meeting was going to go well - Eamon seemed to be spoiling for a fight, no doubt hoping to regain a little of the dignity he had lost over the Rosamunde fiasco.

"Cormac?"

The king's personal secretary was seated beside him, ready with the matters that needed discussion and decisions made by this select group. He shuffled his papers a little nervously.

"Your majesty." Clearing his throat, Cormac looked around at the gathering of the privy council. "There are only a few matters that require input. For one, the appointing of a new Orlesian ambassador. Emperor Gaspard has appointed Lady Jolien De Valors to the position here at court - she is expected within a week."

"Lady Jolien is a known spy," Anora offered in a tone of vague suspicion. "Rather _too_ well known to be given such a prominent position. I would suggest investigating the staff she brings with her for the true spy."

"Such suspicions merely show how deeply your father's prejudices are instilled in you, Anora," Eamon scoffed. "To assume that the Orlesians would send a spy to our court -"

"- is perfectly acceptable, uncle," Alistair pointed out. "Aren't you the one who told me that I must expect and accept the presence of foreign spies within the ambassadorial appointments to the palace?"

"There is no need for Orlais to place spies in the palace," Eamon answered. "We are allies."

"We are also allied with Nevarra and Antiva, and it is not unreasonable to assume they have agents among their people here," Fergus interjected. "It's a common political practice, Eamon. Far better to know which of the Orlesians needs watching than to let them pull the wool over our eyes with such an obvious appointment to the vacant position."

"With your permission, your majesty, I will coordinate with the spymaster and learn what we can of Lady Jolien's party," Cormac offered.

Alistair nodded, ignoring the annoyed expression on his uncle's face. He caught Shianni's eye, the familiar glint that told him she had something to say but needed to be invited to speak before she would interrupt.She had never yet volunteered her information without Alistair inviting her to, no doubt a holdover from her worst experiences before the Blight. 

"There was some talk of the former Orlesian ambassador interfering in the running of the alienage," he said, giving the elven bann the invitation she needed. "Shianni?"

"We found the collaborator," the redhead said in her stern way. "A human merchant who employs some of my people was putting pressure on them to carry messages - threatening their homes, their jobs, that sort of thing. It's been passed on to the Bann of Denerim, but I can't say for sure he's done anything about it."

"I'll suggest he does," Alistair assured her. "I will not have the elves mistreated or made pawns in some elaborate game designed to make them the enemy, not again."

"Thank you."

Shianni nodded to him, glancing to Dem, who was smiling in approval. Having an elf in his inner councils hadn't been a shrewd political move, but it was one of the best decisions Alistair had ever made. There had been no trouble in the alienage for a decade, thanks to Shianni's ability to let him know when his human nobles were letting things slide. In fact, there had been very little trouble in _any_ of Ferelden's alienages since it had become known that if the local bann or arl did not curb their human people's excesses, somehow word of it would reach the king, and he would very pointedly demand they did their duty.

"Is there any more news on the hunt for the assassin?" Alistair asked then, turning his attention to Fergus Cousland.

Fergus shook his head wearily. "Not a sign," he admitted. "We are rapidly coming to the conclusion that it must have been a freak accident. It's not entirely unfeasible that a fire was lit in that room erroneously, and if left unattended, burning wood could have jumped onto the rug and started the blaze."

"Wasn't the blaze started on the bed, though?" Dem asked in a curious tone.

"That's where the confusion comes in," Fergus admitted. "It is possible that Ceri's attempts to fight the fire before alerting anyone may have transferred the flames to the bed and thus made it worse."

"Ceri?" Dem repeated innocently.

Alistair bit down on his smile as Fergus flushed, stumbling over a correction to the familiar way he had spoken of one of the prospective brides. Not that the king minded at all; it was good to see Fergus finding some common ground with someone who was definitely determined to make him smile.

"I would suggest we maintain the close guard on the ladies, however," Fergus went on, rolling his eyes at the knowing trio of feminine smiles pointed at him from around the table. "We may yet have missed something, and it would be better to be safe, rather than sorry."

"True," Anora agreed. "One threat to our foreign visitors is permissible - a further suggestion of violence against them will have a devastating effect on our place in international politics."

"All right, maintain the watch," Alistair told Fergus with a nod. "But relax it a little where you can. Maria, in particular, is very uneasy to always be in the close presence of an armed soldier."

Fergus considered this for a moment before agreeing. "She is constantly in the presence of one of the other ladies, even at night," he conceded. "I can remove her bodyguard if it will make her more comfortable."

"Which rather neatly leads us into the next order of business," Cormac said smoothly, producing a collection of papers from his pile. "Inesa, Queen of Rivain, has agreed to the king's request to adopt Lady Maria as a ward of the Ferelden crown. She has sent the official documentation, including a signed affidavit from the Grand Cleric of Dairsmuid agreeing to the transfer of nationality."

"I do not see why _that_ is a council matter," Eamon said in a dismissive tone. "Put the child in an orphanage and have done with it. She cannot be allowed to remain in close quarters with the king once he chooses his bride."

Alistair felt his jaw stiffen at the man's attitude. _Has he not paid attention to any of the information we've been given about that little girl's life so far? Does he really think I would offer her sanctuary and then throw her away?_ He opened his mouth to respond ... but Anora was already speaking.

"I find it fascinating, Arl Eamon, that you are so ready to dismiss a child out of hand _again_ ," the blonde teryna commented in a deceptively mild tone. "One would have thought that your past experiences in such matters would have taught you to keep your opinions to yourself on this matter."

"I fail to see your point," was Eamon's cold answer, and Alistair found his gaze turning to Anora, surprised to see a glint of relish in her eyes.

"Let us revisit your past attempts, by all means," she replied, just as cold in tone as the arl sat beside her. "You were given charge of King Maric's second son; at the first test of your loyalty to the boy, you cast him away to the Templars and did not even appear to notice when they, in turn, gave him to the Grey Wardens. Indeed, you only became interested in him again when the fact of his existence offered you a path to power."

"How _dare_ you -"

"And, of course, there is the way you have treated your own son," Anora continued, ignoring Eamon's spluttering indignation beside her. "Again, bowing to your wife's demands, you endangered Redcliffe and everyone living there by attempting to keep Connor's magic a secret, inadvertently placing yourself in mortal danger as well at a time of crisis for the country. As I understand it, you have not even spoken to your son since he was sent to the Circle, and do not allow many to speak his name in your presence. Did I forget anything?"

"Ooh, I know," Dem offered with a sweet smile. "He's just recommended that a little girl who has spent her life so far in a Chantry orphanage with no connection to anyone beyond a Reverend Mother with severe issues, by the sound of things, should be sent to another Chantry orphanage and forgotten by the one person who can make her life change for the better?"

"Ah, yes, of course." Anora inclined her head to the elven Warden. "Thank you. Well, Arl Eamon?" she added, turning to look at the man beside her once again. "Would you care to continue spouting nonsense designed to keep yourself in your position of influence, or would you rather shut your mouth and listen to what the _king_ has decided?"

"I am merely attempting to point out that taking a child of foreign heritage and unknown parentage into the royal household is not a wise decision." Eamon cleared his throat, looking to Alistair. "We know nothing of this girl's background beyond what the Chantry has told us. She could be anything - if you take her into the royal family, she could be used as a weapon against us."

"Good points," Anora allowed, "but irrelevant. This is the king's decision, not yours, and by extending this offer, Alistair has clearly already made his choice."

"My advice is not irrelevant, my lady," Eamon began, but Alistair was already cutting him off.

"Enough, uncle," he said sharply. "Anora is absolutely right, my decision is already made. It was made as soon as I found out Maria has nothing waiting for her but abuse and loneliness. I maintain she will be a ward of the crown, she will have a place here in the royal household, and she will be treated as though she is a lady of the blood. I am not about to suddenly make her my heir - quite apart from anything else, that is the _last_ thing I would wish on a little girl who just needs a family."

"You could place her with a family of good standing," Eamon pressed.

Alistair's expression turned stony. He had had enough of being talked over, of having his decisions questioned, of listening to Eamon drone on and on in the hope of wearing him down. Enough was enough.

 _"I_ am a family of good standing," he informed the older man. "The whole point of this ridiculous month - something _you_ arranged and bartered for among the Landsmeet - is to provide Ferelden with a queen and me with a wife. Maria will have a mother and a father within a few months. She is staying with _me_ , if she chooses to, and that is all I am going to say on the subject."

"What about Princess Felicita?" Dem asked, cutting over any further attempts by the arl to force his viewpoint on the gathering. "Word is she's offered the same sort of position in her own household to Maria."

"As I understand it, the Antivan ambassador was also sent word of Queen Inesa's decision," Cormac told her. "The princess is well-versed in the political landscape; it is likely she will understand the reasoning behind this choice."

Alistair hesitated, confused by the injection of information he hadn't yet been made aware of.

"I didn't know she'd ... Of course, Maria can make her own decision," he stuttered, pulling himself together with a frown. "What reasoning?"

Anora tilted her head. "Antivan politics is a dangerous game, Alistair," she explained, almost gently. "As much the princess may wish to offer the child safety at her side, as a princess of the Antivan blood royal, she cannot always assume that her side will be the safest place to be. Blood is a currency that is often paid in Antiva by the unwary and unwilling."

"Maria would be safer here," Shianni translated bluntly. "The princess probably already told her that."

Alistair's frown didn't immediately lift at this news, but it wasn't because of the obvious concern. _Is that why Fabs was so cold with me just now?_ he wondered, thinking back on the strange interaction. _Is she angry that Queen Inesa decided to give Maria to me and not her?_ But as soon as that thought trickled through his mind, another came to assuage the guilt. _I can make it up to her. I'll just ... make sure she knows how welcome she is here. Can't propose, not yet, but I can make it clear I like her. Maria likes her. We could ... we could be a family._ As a slow smile crossed his face, he heard Dem clear her throat, looking up to find his friend swiping her fingers across her mouth with a warning look in her eyes.

Realizing he was the center of attention for the entire table, Alistair echoed the motion, wiping the smile from his face as he nodded professionally.

"I trust that the princess will do as she sees fit," he said, hastily looking to Cormac for rescue. "Any further items?"

The secretary swallowed what looked like a smile of his own, lifting a piece of parchment weighed down by the heavy wax seal of the Inquisition.

"Inquisitor Lavellan is requesting permission to send an expedition into the Frostback Basin," he explained, drawing the slightly antagonistic silence toward himself. "It would appear they are in search of the truth behind the first Inquisitor's disappearance, and have funding from the University of Orlais."

As the details were shared and dissected, Alistair let the conversation slide past without much need to pay attention. In this, at least, he trusted this group to make the appropriate decision without his input. No, he was more concerned with Fabs and her apparent change toward him. Was she really so put out by having Maria's guardianship snatched away from her? And how could he put it right, he wondered. The time was fast approaching for him to make his decision, but without her consent, it would be pointless to declare it. So what should he do?

Whatever he decided, it would have to be something special. Something she couldn't misconstrue.

But how to do that, when he couldn't even get her name right?


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicita displays that she is not just a pretty face or a doormat.

"Andraste's flaming knickers, this is _boring."_

Language aside, Ceri's declaration of utter tedium was more than enough to make Felicita smile. That smile, however, was short-lived, fading abruptly as Delphine spoke in answer.

"Any lady of true distinction, Ardvale, would not find this afternoon boring in the slightest," the Orlesian girl declared snidely. "I have long suspected that you are not a lady of distinction."

Ceri's eyes narrowed, but it was Felicita who got there first, her temper poor enough as it was right now.

"I am surprised you count yourself among that number, Delphine," the Antivan princess commented, a little harshly. "Most ladies have more brains in their heads than breasts in their bodice."

The silence this commanded was stunning. Felicita had _never_ spoken so sharply to any of them, and of the ladies gathered there, none had suspected she had a temper or even a petty side. Amandine's mouth had fallen open in dismay, though Ceri was utterly failing to hide her snorts of laughter at the look of impotent fury that rose on Delphine's face. Still, it was just as well it was only they four in with the seamstress just now - Maria might not have enjoyed having it made so clear that her favorite princess had her limits just like everyone else.

"How _dare_ you speak to me like that!" Delphine flared, dropping her arms to the annoyance of the seamstress still working on her. "I am a lady of the Empire of Orlais, and -"

"Orlais is not an empire any longer, you silly little girl," Felicita responded sharply. "It may call itself an empire and its leader an emperor, but Orlais controls no lands that were not its own before the great expansion. You are _not_ better than anyone in this country. Indeed, your behavior to date marks you as having manners only slightly more refined than a lustful tavern wench."

Delphine gaped at her. She wasn't the only one staring, either. Amandine's mouth had closed, but her expression had turned from dismay to consternation. It appeared that neither of them had even considered that the princess might have more about her than the sweet temperament they had privately marked as being more annoying than endearing. Ceri, on the other hand, was hiding a smile. The Kirkwall lady rose to her feet.

"I think the air in here has got a little stale," she declared. "Come on, princess. Let's take a walk."

Quietly fuming, though more at her own irritability than at Delphine, Felicita rose to leave the room at Ceri's side. She could return to her own last fitting when she had calmed down a little. She knew what the problem was, of course. She was close to her moons blood, and these days before the bleeding began were always a trial on her temper. Add to that her uncertainty about whether or not King Alistair had made his decision already, and the flare of jealousy that rose every time she considered him marrying someone other than _her_ , and her fuse had become a good deal shorter for the time being.

"Now I'm not going to say that Delphine didn't deserve that," Ceri said conversationally, nudging the princess into her own rooms and shutting the door behind them. "But you're not usually the type to rise to her baiting. Did something juicy happen that I missed?"

Felicita sighed, shaking her head.

"No," she insisted. "I am simply ... out of sorts. I will be myself again in a day or so."

That was all she needed to say to let another woman know what time of the month it was, but Ceri was still smiling, opening her chest to start pulling out items of clothing.

"Aye, well, it seems like you're carrying more than your share of temper right now," the redhead informed her easily. "Seems to me you need to work off some of that temper, and sitting around sewing just isn't doing it for you. You've got daggers - let's get some use out of them."

Felicita blinked, staring at her for a moment.

"I have no clothing suitable for sparring," she began, but broke off as Ceri threw an armful of clothing at her.

"Now you do," Ceri said firmly. "We're about the same height - you've a bit more meat than me, but the pants lace and the tunic is long. No one's going to get a glimpse of your scandalous belly button. Put them on, and let's see you in action, princess."

The princess stared at her for a long moment. _But why not?_ She was feeling agitated and restless, and the last thing she wanted to do was lose her temper with Maria, or the king. A good sparring match should knock some of that pent-up frustration out of her, and she had reason to suspect that Ceri would be a good opponent. With a defeated chuckle, she tossed the clothing onto the bed and began to strip out of her chemise alongside the cheeky Marcher, finally strapping her daggers to her thighs over the snugly fitted leather pants she'd been given. After a moment's thought, unused to the loose fall of the tunic, she excused herself to recover a plain cinch from her own quarters, tugging it to a comfortable fit over the tunic.

Ceri grinned at her approvingly as they headed out of the ladies' quarters, Delphine's voice starting to rise in the room they had abandoned. It appeared that the Orlesian beauty had finally recovered her wits enough to complain about the way she had been treated, and Amandine was just going to have to put up with it until she could escape after the fitting.

"So what's _really_ got your drawers knotted?" the redheaded Marcher asked as they walked down the stairs together, ignoring the mild gaping at the sight of the princess in pants that was coming from every servant or noble who happened to glance their way.

Felicita winced, shaking her head. "It is not worth putting words to," she tried to demur, but Ceri wasn't having it.

"It's obviously worth losing your temper over, so let's have it," she insisted. "Get it all out in the open, and maybe it'll stop gnawing at you."

"Truly, it is nothing so very much," the princess tried to counter, still shaking her head. "I am simply irritable, it will pass."

"All right, then I'll start making guesses," Ceri said bluntly, pushing open the door that would take them to the back corridors and in the direction of the training ground within the palace boundaries. "The king was given wardship of Maria, which is upsetting for you but sensible, given the circumstances. You're still on edge about being tricked into coming here for a competition, but since you've endured it for more than half the month and most of the others are in the same boat, you can't really make a fuss of that feeling. The gossip around here says that Ciara's going to be the king's choice, and you're all twisted up about that, because you're in love with Alistair yourself."

Felicita almost tripped. "I am _not_ in love with the king," she hissed, glancing around as though afraid someone had overheard this announcement.

"Oh, really?" Ceri was militantly unconvinced. "Because every time Ciara mentions how relieved she is not to have to marry a complete stranger, your face looks like thunder for a couple of seconds. Every time Delphine starts on about gossip and how to be a good wife, you glower. You haven't even smiled at the king for the last few days, and yet your eyes follow him when he isn't looking at you. Which, by the way, _he_ does to _you_ , too."

"Enough, Ceri," Felicita said firmly. "This is not something I wish to discuss."

"Well, you're bang out of luck there, because we are _going_ to discuss this," the redhead told her without batting an eyelid. "It's bloody obvious to anyone who looks that you're in love with Alistair, and even more obvious that he's pretty smitten with you."

"No," Felicita insisted, feeling the first vestiges of panic rising. "Ceri, _please_ ..." She paused, looking around to be certain no one was near before she continued, her voice softer now. 

"I ... I care for him, yes," she admitted, her cheeks almost crimson as she offered this as some kind of peace between them. Her stomach was tied in knots just at having this conversation at all. "But please, do not think to encourage me by pretending he thinks any more of me than any other. He has denied Ciara's father the right to wed her to _anyone_ without his permission, and she would be a far more popular choice among his people than anyone from beyond their borders. It is not simply his personal preference that will inform this decision."

Ceri eyed her thoughtfully. "And you've already decided that the politics put you out of the running?"

Felicita swallowed, glancing away. "If Arl Eamon has his way, the next queen of Ferelden will be Orlesian," she pointed out. "Yet he will not have his way. The best means to put him in his place is to raise a Fereldan woman to the crown. They would be good for each other."

"But he doesn't _love_ her," the Marcher said quietly. "And she doesn't love him. You'd be amazed what people will risk to see their hearts' desire fulfilled."

This, the princess could not refute. The legends within their own lifetime spoke of how much a person would risk for love - the Hero of Ferelden, the Champion of Kirkwall, even to some extent the Inquisitor - they had all found love in the midst of darkness, and fought to keep it. She sighed, a very faint smile touching her lips.

"And what gives you this insight into the heart of a king?" she asked, with deceptive curiosity.

Ceri's answering grin was broad. "The heart of his friend," she answered, just as sweetly.

Felicita laughed at that, turning to continue on her way at Ceri's side. It would appear that the Kirkwall lady's determined pursuit of the Teryn of Highever had been answered in kind, and found something softer than mere alliance and advancement in the culmination of that pursuit. And she found that she was very glad to hear Ceri talk of hearts; to know that her blunt, outspoken friend had come in search of alliance and had found something that could be called love in its fulfillment. She did not doubt that climax had come as a surprise to Teryn Cousland, but she could not see such a match failing. They were well suited to one another. And Ceri's brush with death on the night of the fire must have cemented in the man's mind his certainty that she was worth setting his customary chastity aside for.

"And when will the wedding be?" she asked quietly, amused when Ceri blushed.

"Not until after Summerday," the redhead admitted. "It seems bad form for one of the king's potential brides to marry his closest friend among the ranks of the Fereldan nobles before he actually gets married himself."

Felicita touched her arm gently, her smile wide and sincere. "I am happy for you, Ceri," she told her friend. "Happier still that you have found something for yourself in the task you came to accomplish."

Ceri's expression softened as they paused once again, this time under the eaves on the edge of the training ground. Her eyes turned to the ground itself, where soldiers were sparring, lighting up as she settled her gaze on the object of her affections.

"I never expected to love him," she confessed quietly. "He _needs_ someone to love him, someone who knows how to take care of herself. After what happened at Highever ..."

She trailed off. The deaths of Fergus' first wife and son would always weigh heavily on his heart, combined as they were with the deaths of his parents and sister on the same night. Felicita embraced her gently.

"You will teach him not to fear so very much," she predicted.

"I'll teach him a lot more than that," Ceri countered, mischief crowding her expression as she winked at her royal friend. "Come on, then. Let's see what you've got, _your highness_."

Felicita raised her brow, glancing over the ground thoughtfully. Many of the men were wearing mail and helmets - serious sparring, as opposed to the playful bout Ceri had in mind to relieve the princess of some of the stress and agitation she was carrying unnecessarily. She drew her daggers from the sheaths at her thighs as the two women walked to a space that seemed to clear as if by magic just for them.

"Looks like we'll have an audience," Ceri said with a grin.

Felicita found herself grinning back at the redhead, hilts held in in a flexible grip in her palms.

"I think you are correct in your summation," she agreed. "Shall we give them a show?"

Nothing more needed to be said - indeed, Ceri was already moving to close the distance as Felicita finally gave her permission to engage in close quarters combat.  And it had to be said that sparring when both parties bore dual daggers was not for a faint-hearted audience.

There was a speed and complexity to every gesture and clash that was almost totally alien to soldiers trained with axe or sword and shield. Even those who preferred to fight with only a single weapon were soon entranced by the swift grace of the two women exchanging blows in their midst. Only the scouts who were by custom armed with dual daggers seemed unsurprised by the seeming ferocity of these esteemed ladies displaying skill with their weapons of choice. Across the training ground, fights stilled, helmets were removed for a better view; wagers were quietly discussed even as the men and women murmured to one another in appreciation of two nobly-born women who seemed more than capable of defending themselves in a tight corner. Given that the ladies were _supposed_ to be having their final fitting for the Fereldan-style gowns the king - _Arl Eamon_ \- had requested they wear for his birthday celebrations, it was even more of a treat to see a princess and a lady sparring as though they actually knew what they were doing.

And a few heads _did_ turn toward the Teryn of Highever's sparring partner, curious glances wanting to see for themselves the rumored preference in person. Alistair was staring, open-mouthed, the helmet he had just removed hanging loosely from one hand as he leaned on his sword. Yet the sharpest eyes among the watchers could easily note that his gaze followed the princess more than the lady, and who could blame him? Fine-figured, agile and graceful; beautiful, too ... Princess Felicita ticked far more boxes than she left blank, in the opinion of the general populace.

Not that Felicita was aware of any of this. She was engaged in the fight, the action stirring her blood, heightening her senses, exhausting the knotting agitation in her stomach as she relaxed into the exercise. Ceri _was_ a formidable opponent; she had been correct in that summation, but it seemed as though she herself had not lost the edge she had honed over the years since she had first taken up her study of the dagger. In fact, unless Ceri had given herself a handicap or was going easy on her, they seemed to be perfectly matched. The Marcher had more strength, true, but Felicita appeared to have better agility, avoiding many of the sweeps that should have ended the bout.

Yet in the end, it was sheer dumb luck that decided the outcome. Felicita bent back just a _little_ too far to avoid one of Ceri's daggers, her recovery just a _little_ too slow to avoid the other dagger that swept around to spank the flat of the blade firmly against one of her breasts. Ceri laughed, shaking her hair out of her eyes.

"Well, if you're not dead, you're definitely inconvenienced, your highness," she joked, setting off a ripple of laughter among the soldiers gathered around to watch.

Felicita laughed with her, batting the dagger away from her bosom with the faintest suggestion of a blush on her cheeks.

"I will thank you not to threaten my modest assets, Lady Ardvale," she countered in amusement, still chuckling as Ceri erupted with a bark of laughter.

"Unless you're referring to the way you dress, there is nothing modest about those assets, milady," the redhead assured her, sheathing her daggers. "Good fight, though. Feeling better?"

Settling her own daggers at her thighs, Felicita gratefully took a drink from the cup one of the soldiers offered her, handing it back with a warm smile before she answered her fiery friend.

"Much," she agreed with a satisfied nod. "Thank you."

Ceri shrugged easily. "Any time you want to have your assets threatened in a friendly way, just ask," was her reply. Her eyes skated past the princess, widening in what appeared to be pleasant surprise. "Your majesty! Did you enjoy the fight?"

The knots that had lessened in Felicita's stomach suddenly tightened again as she realized with rising horror that the king had seen her display. That Alistair was standing behind her, and she was wearing form-fitting pants for the first time in his sight. _So much for modest._ She turned, fighting not to drop a curtsy and make a bigger fool of herself than she already had.

"It was very enlightening, Lady Ceri," Alistair was saying, nudging Fergus at his side. "Wouldn't you say, lordship?"

"Very much so, sire," Fergus responded, his grin widening as he met Ceri's eyes. "It seems both Kirkwall and Antiva have been keeping a few secrets from us about the capabilities of their ladies."

At this, suspicion rose in Felicita's mind, her head snapping about to find Ceri's grin unchanged. This little interaction held the strong scent of collusion - what were the teryn and his lady up to, she wondered. She did not have any opportunity here and now to question her friend, however, her attention caught by the king as he cleared his throat.

"You have wonderfully good form, your highness," he complimented her, but seemed incapable of preventing his gaze from skimming down over her physical form, noting the slender waist, flared hips, and _long_ legs that had been hiding under skirts for the last twenty days. Fergus cleared his throat, and Alistair's eyes snapped back to Felicita's face, his blush now matching her own.

"That is, I, uh ... Well, I ..." He sighed. "Would you care to spar a little with me?" he offered finally. "I will, of course, set my shield aside to even the field, as it were."

Felicita, for all her quiet embarrassment at being in this state of dress in front of him, could feel the knots in her stomach warming and unraveling at the sudden realization that he _liked_ what he saw. He'd never had difficulty meeting her eyes before now, something she had not even considered until suddenly he was distracted by her silhouette on display. It was ... rather sweet, watching him try not to admire her close to, and rather _more_ than sweet to realize that her looks were just as enticing to him as Delphine's breasts.

"You are wearing mail, your majesty," she pointed out. "Both an advantage _and_ a disadvantage in such a fight, I believe."

Alistair glanced down at himself, as though only just realizing he was swathed in chain.

"Oh." He glanced back at her, and appeared to come to a decision. "That's easily dealt with, princess."

Handing his sword and shield to the nearest soldier, he began the fascinating wriggle to divest himself of his mail shirt, muffling his swearing for the sake of the ladies present. Not that the ladies appeared to notice. While Ceri was arranging her own fresh bout with Fergus, Felicita _certainly_ didn't notice any cursing, entirely too interested in the glimpse of bare, toned stomach that peeped into view as his gambeson rode up in the process, and the trail of fair hair that thinned and darkened as it disappeared beneath the comfortable hug of his belted pants. Ceri nudged her just in time - she snapped her covetous gaze up sharply to meet Alistair's mildly dazed expression as the chain mail thumped unceremoniously to the ground beside him. He was adorably disheveled, too; for a moment, her fingers twitched with the urge to reorder his hair for him before she firmly told herself that she should not even be thinking about that.

She watched as he smoothed his gambeson and took the sword back from the soldier standing nearby, then paused, looking around the field.

"What are you all staring at?" the king asked in mild annoyance. "You're supposed to be training!"

There was a sudden bustle of motion as men and women made the attempt to look as though they _weren't_ eager to watch their king take on a dual-wielding princess with just a sword. They must have seen similarly weighted fights before, Felicita reflected as she drew her own daggers, vaguely aware of Ceri and Fergus moving away to begin their own sparring match. Demelza Tabris fought with dual daggers, after all, and Alistair must have sparred with her plenty of times. That thought gave her a moment's pause. Alistair was a trained, seasoned warrior; she was a princess with just enough skill to get herself out of danger. It would not do to get overconfident just because he was staring at her legs again.

She caught his eye as he raised his gaze once again, unable to keep the teasing tilt from her lips as she smiled at his mild discomfort at being caught. He cleared his throat, adjusting the grip on his longsword.

"Shall we, Fabs?"

Just hearing him give her that unique nickname once again was enough to bring her smile forth brightly, glad her poor temper of the past days had not totally destroyed his wish to be more familiar with her. She raised her daggers, inclining her head to him.

"We shall, Alistair," she responded, and abruptly flinched back as he stepped smartly into the fight.

Her crossed daggers rose on instinct to block the blade as it swept toward her stomach, but that momentary reprieve was all too short. Alistair removed one hand from his hilt without taking the pressure of his blade from hers, and sharply rapped his palm against her left wrist. Her fingers opened automatically, dropping the dagger from her grasp in surprise at the painless shock he had delivered without a moment's hesitation. She danced backward, shaking out her left hand, her fallen dagger abandoned on the dirt.

"I would apologize," Alistair grinned over at her, "but I've already seen what you can do with those blades."

"You consider me a threat fully armed?" she asked, her vague offense smoothed by his playful failure to apologize for playing rough.

"I think every rose has some thorns," was his reply, but he kicked the fallen dagger up from the ground, catching it neatly at the blade to offer it back to her.

"Such a gentleman," she teased, taking the hilt back into her left hand.

Her grip felt off, though, the shock of the blow to her wrist more than she had been expecting. She'd never fought anyone who had actually fought back with the means to truly defeat her, suspicion suddenly clouding her mind that Ceri had probably gone easy on her. Her fingers flexed around the bound hilt as she studied Alistair, who had resumed the still stance of a seasoned fighter waiting for the next opportunity to take an advantage. It was her turn to attack, it seemed.

Her eyes narrowed as she considered him, edging forward, daggers held loosely in a deceptively wide stance. His sword tip followed her motion, but his eyes were fixed on hers, no longer distracted by her appearance as he settled into what must be the familiar dance of blades. She lunged suddenly, her right blade seeking to knock his sword out of her way. He responded seemingly without thought, his sword circling out of the block of her blade to slap the flat against the knuckles of her left hand. This time, the dagger spun away, and he caught her right wrist in his right hand, pushing away rather than taking the opening he'd created. She was _definitely_ out of her depth here.

Knuckles stinging, she backed up once again, her expression settling into a thoughtful frown as she let her gaze flicker over the seemingly lazy stillness of his stance. He was braced, but not totally; ready to move in any direction as soon as she gave the first indication of her own attack. Felicita quite suddenly knew this bout was already over, Alistair already the victor. He was experienced, well-trained, and clearly knew a few tricks to boot. But he was _enjoying_ himself, that wild grin bright and care-free as he watched her watching him. That was more than enough to cushion the blow to her pride that was coming.

She tossed the dagger back and forth between her hands for a moment, a move her tutors had always told her never to do - showing off was more likely to get her killed than anything, they'd insisted, a waste of her energy. But she knew what she was waiting for, and when it came, she struck. Alistair's grin faded just a little, his eyes flickering to the dagger in her hands. Felicita darted forward, thrusting his sword aside with the little blade in her grasp, spinning to come close enough to slap the flat against his ribs. At least, that was the plan. The execution, however ...

Alistair caught her wrist as the dagger flashed toward his ribs, dragging her arm out and behind him. She stumbled, off-balance, to slam close against his chest, her free arm wrapping about his waist to keep herself from falling. His sword arm curled about her upper back, bringing the blade up and over her opposite shoulder and his own, the edge stroking cold steel against her neck. _Game over._

And there they stood for what felt like eternity, in each other's arms, breathless with exertion ... or was it desire denied? Fabs could feel the ripple of liquid heat billowing within her as she tasted Alistair's breath on her lips, felt the warmth of his body holding her close as her hand clung to the folds of his gambeson. She saw the amber-sweet hue of his eyes darken as his gaze flickered to her mouth, fighting the urge to lick her lips in unthinking invitation of the kiss they had _almost_ shared once already.

Then a crash of swords meeting from across the ground rattled through her consciousness, alerting them both to how very public this tableau was, and she abruptly pulled back, Alistair's arms falling swiftly from around her. Both of them were blushing, laughing awkwardly at the end result of their unexpected sparring match. Felicita bent to retrieve her lost dagger, and almost yelped when Alistair's hand closed over hers as she took hold of it. Her head snapped up to find him bent over beside her, both of them reaching for the same weapon even as they slowly straightened together.

"It was a good match," she heard herself say, as though the words didn't really belong to her.

His answer was almost lost in the roar of her own odd sense of shyness, but she could have sworn she heard him murmur,

_"Yes, we are."_

A yell from behind her separated them once again, however, the king's hand leaving her own to let her sheath her weapons and turn to greet Maria, who was running to join them waving her own wooden sword.

"Are we fighting?" the little girl demanded hopefully. "Can I fight, too? I'm good, Mr. Kingness says I am!"

Felicita laughed, relieved both to have had her bad temper knocked out of her and to have an excuse to step away from Alistair before she allowed her heart to make a decision she was not quite ready for. She stroked her hand over Maria's hair, carefully twisted into a pair of buns today.

"I am sure the king would be very happy to spar with you, Maria," she assured the child, glancing to Alistair with a warm smile. "Is that not true, your majesty?"

"Oh, I am always ready to be beaten in fair combat by the ravenous raider of Rivain," Alistair declared in answer, nodding to a groom, who came forward with a wooden practice sword for the king. "Shall we fight for the honor of the princess, my lady, so cruelly defeated by both her foes this afternoon?"

Maria giggled, raising her little sword in both hands. "I will spank you," she threatened cheerfully, earning herself a hearty laugh from the king.

"I deserve it," he assured her, as Felicita moved to the edge of the ground to watch. "I'm a bad, bad man."

"Didn't look that bad from where I was standing," Ceri commented, leaning against the wall beside the princess as Maria proceeded to ignore all the rules of fair combat and lay into Alistair's hips and backside with her practice weapon. "Looked like you were enjoying it quite a bit, really."

Felicita shot her a warning look. "Enough, Ceri," she said in a firm tone. "I like him, yes. But the decision is not mine."

"Doesn't mean you can't weight it in your favor," the redhead point out with a faint smile. She shrugged. "Worth thinking about, anyway."

The princess rolled her eyes as the Marcher stepped away, returning her gaze to the sight of the king of Ferelden lying on the packed earth and crying with laughter as he begged for mercy from his diminutive opponent. She couldn't help laughing along with him, hugging her arms about her waist, trying not to linger on the memory of being in his arms so very recently. Trying not to recall the way his gaze had darkened with desire, the way he had sought out her company when he could so easily have remained anonymous beneath his helmet. _Did_ he like her, as she liked him?

She sighed quietly beneath her smile. Perhaps Ceri was right, after all. Perhaps it was time to make herself a definite contender in this strange contest. The worst she could lose was her pride.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alistair begins his birthday and thoroughly enjoys it.

The bells began ringing at an un-Makerly hour on the twenty-first, declaring to the city of Denerim that it was the king's birthday. In the Gathering field outside the city wall, workers hurried to finish their preparations for the melee and joust that had been prepared; in the kitchens, the cooks were already working to put together a private feast for the king and his invited guests for the evening.

In the royal apartments, Alistair groaned and rolled onto his face, one hand groping for a pillow to cram over his head in the hope of snatching another hour of sleep. But no ... the bells just kept ringing, sharing the joyful news that he was a year older. He sighed, lifting his head from beneath the pillow to glare blearily at the window. Twelve years as king, give or take a few months. And this day, which up until his conscription into the Wardens had been completely ignored by everyone around him, now didn't even belong to him anymore. The king's birthday was a national holiday in Ferelden; everyone got to celebrate it. _Everyone_ got a day off ... except the king himself.

Because, of course, the king's birthday was a diplomatic event. He had to be seen to be enjoying his birthday; he had to accept graciously the best wishes for his health and the coming year from all sorts of dignitaries, both foreign and domestic. He was still the king, when his birthday should have meant he had one day a year to simply be _Alistair_. It was deeply frustrating. But this year, at least, there were a few things to be thankful for.

One was the fact that Dem would be present for the whole day for once, not just dropping in briefly before midnight to punch his shoulder and hand over some oddly deformed little statuette she'd found on her travels to mark the occasion. Another was that he'd conspired with some of the fighters in the planned melee to actually take part this year. He rarely got the chance to test his combat skills these days, and in nondescript armor, he was pretty sure no one would throw away their chance of winning just to curry favor with the king. And, of course, there were the ladies. Maria, who was more excited about his birthday than her own, and had been shushed so many times in the last week to keep her from blurting out what she had been preparing for his birthday present; and Fabs.

Alistair felt himself grin as his thoughts turned to the Antivan princess. A part of him wished he could call the Landsmeet early, propose to her today, announce the wedding today, but Dem had been right about that. He had to see this through to its logical, pre-set ending. There was no point offending the countries of those ladies still present unnecessarily. Still, there was no rule that said he couldn't show a little favor toward the princess, was there? And that would put Eamon's nose right out of joint. Not that upsetting Eamon was a reason to give Fabs his time and attention. 

No, she had plenty of reasons all her own, quite apart from the long legs that had been haunting his sleep for the last couple of nights with images of them wrapped about his hips. He'd never quite put together her height with the fact that her legs must be quite _that_ long, nor considered that someone who trained with daggers might be quite _that_ toned, but seeing her in those tight pants had put paid to any hope of keeping his private thoughts about her respectable. She'd drawn him in simply by being her sweet-tempered, intelligent, funny self ... and then she'd shown off that there was a lot more to admire about her than her mind and face. He was totally smitten, and pretty damned proud of that fact, too. He could look forward to the end of the month in hopes of her agreement when he asked her, and the enticing prospect of _finally_ being able to kiss her no matter where they were or who was watching.

As the bells clanged to a stop after rousing the entire city entirely too early on a holiday, the king rolled onto his side, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed as he sat up. One hand rubbed over his hair, vaguely aware of the door opening politely as his valet entered to help him prepare for the day ahead. Being Alistair's valet was an easy job, admittedly; he was too stubborn not to dress himself every morning. The lad only needed to ferry the laundry back and forth, and make sure his king was presentable before leaving the chamber in the morning. He wasn't really necessary, but Alistair didn't have the heart to dismiss the boy.

"What's that you've got there, Seamus?" he asked, tilting his head toward the careful pile of cloth-wrapped parcels in the boy's arms.

The boy grinned at him over his armful. "The ladies thought you might want to mark your birthday with gifts, your majesty," he said, his voice still oddly scratching on certain words. Puberty had hit Seamus quite hard in the last few months.

Alistair perked up. "Gifts?" he asked. "For me?"

Seamus' grin only grew at his king's surprised pleasure. "Aye, sire," he agreed. "They were quite determined about me bringing them up here before you have to put the crown on and be the king for the rest of the day. The little one says that birthdays are about the person, not the hat."

Despite himself, Alistair snorted with laughter. He could easily imagine Maria's persistence in making sure he got a chance to enjoy a least a little of his own birthday. She was a joy to have around, and this just proved the point that making her his ward was likely one of the best decisions he'd ever made.

"Well, bring them over here then," he said, trying to curb his excitement.

It had been a very long time since anyone but Demelza and Fergus had given him gifts on his birthday. Most people preferred to gift the _king_ with something fabulous and expensive, with no recourse to whether the _man_ would actually like it or not. And the little pile Seamus laid on the bed beside him was much bigger than any pile of presents he'd had all for himself in the last decade, rivaled only by the small mountain of miscellaneous presents his fellow Grey Wardens had given him between his Joining and the defeat at Ostagar. He counted them quickly - seven gifts, one from each of the ladies currently getting a lie-in one floor down from where he sat right now. Just that was exciting enough, even before he got to the point of opening any of them.

"Where should I begin, do you think?" he asked Seamus, who still hadn't managed to wipe the grin from his face.

"Well, sire, the little one - Lady Maria - was very clear about her gift being on the top of the pile," the lad told him in amusement. "It's the little one with the blue ribbon."

Alistair's mouth curved in a delighted smile as he reached for the indicated present. The only thing that would make this better, he thought, would be having the gift-givers here ... and then he remembered that Delphine was one of the gift-givers, and quickly amended that to the gift-givers he _liked_. Tugging the blue ribbon loose from the little gift in his hand, the cloth unraveled to reveal a small wooden pendant on a silver chain. It had been carved in the shape of a mabari, but someone small and artistically inclined had painted that mabari to resemble Lady. Alistair felt his heart constrict for a moment, deeply touched by the sheer amount of _effort_ Maria had put into his birthday gift. Without a second thought, he hung the pendant about his neck, fingers lightly touching the painted wood as a small smile tilted his lips. _I'll have to thank her._

The next package was a little bulkier, unraveling to reveal a strange fur-trimmed cap of crimson velvet. Alistair frowned, turning it over in his hands as he tried to puzzle out what it was for. Then his eye caught on a slip of parchment that had been in the parcel, setting the cap aside to read the rounded hand there.

_A cap to make the crown rest easier on your head - the faces you pull when you have a headache are not exactly handsome. And happy birthday, your kingness. - Callista_

He snorted with laughter, rolling his eyes. Callista of Nevarra was full of surprises, it seemed. Not only was she good company, once he stopped staring at her bosom, but she displayed an unusually observant sense of intelligence that intrigued him at times.

"Seamus ... bring the crown over here a moment, would you?" he asked his valet, lifting the soft padded cap once again to consider it.

 _So the fur obviously goes around the outside of the rim ..._ As Seamus handed him the crown, Alistair carefully fitted the velvet cap onto the antique gold, and lifted the whole thing to set it on his head.

"Maker's blood, that's amazing," he exclaimed, astonished to find that even a small amount of padding suddenly made the heavy crown so much more comfortable on his head. He removed it, feeling a deep pang of gratitude to Callista for being quite that observant in the first place, and also feeling a bit of an idiot for not having considered padding the damned thing years ago. 

"Keep that cap with the crown," he told Seamus, handing both crown and cap to the boy. "It might actually prevent me from throwing the whole thing into the corner when I get back to the palace this afternoon."

Laughing quietly, Seamus did as he was told. The sheer number of times he'd been obliged to send the crown to have dents hammered out of it for this exact reason did not bear thinking about. The lady from Nevarra may just have saved the king's valet from one of his more tedious jobs.

A knock on the door interrupted Alistair opening the next of the little bundles. As Cormac entered to establish the schedule for the day, Alistair waved him into silence.

"Go away, I'm opening my presents," he informed his secretary, barely even glancing up. This was far too exciting to interrupt for mere duty right now.

Ignoring Cormac's splutter of laughter and the sound of Seamus explaining to the secretary exactly what was going on here, Alistair uncovered a soft pair of Antivan leather riding gloves, grinning even before he noted that they were a gift from Ceridwyn Ardvale. Fergus had taken him down to the stables the night before and gifted him a mare from the stables of Highever as his birthday presents; no doubt Ceri had known ahead of time about that. But they were beautiful gloves, very nearly a perfect fit on what he thought were his over-large hands. _And **Antivan** leather, too. Is that girl trying to tell me something,_ he wondered, setting them aside with a smile to select another parcel from the pile beside him.

The next gift did not exactly bring a smile to his face. A pearl-studded belt of gold links dropped heavily into his lap from the cloth wrapping - Delphine's gift. He frowned faintly, knowing he was going to have to wear the damned thing at some point today, probably at the feast tonight. It was a handsome gift, certainly, but it was the sort of thing a noble gave to a king; not what a woman gave to a man, displaying that she had failed to learn anything about the man who wore the crown in the last twenty days or so. 

Even Leona's gift showed a better understanding of him than Delphine's, along with the enduring characteristic of the Starkhaven girl's temperament - a quote from the Canticle of Andraste, lovingly recreated in needlepoint. _Within My creation, none are alone._ Despite her Chantry leanings, Leona was observant enough, it seemed, to tailor her gift to the man she was giving it to. And the quote itself made him smile, albeit a little sadly. He _did_ often feel very alone, isolated on his throne. That was the reason he'd agreed to this ridiculous bride hunt in the first place.

"Seamus," he said thoughtfully, stroking a fingertip over the skilled stitches. "Have this framed and hung in my study, would you?"

"Aye, sire, that I can do." The lad bowed as he took the bright needlepoint piece from his king.

That left two parcels on the bed beside Alistair, and he was surprised to find himself hesitating before choosing which one to open. One of them had to be from Fabs, and the other from Ciara, but who would have wrapped something squishy, and who would have wrapped what felt like a book? It was a conundrum - not because he didn't want to know, but because he wanted to save Fabs' gift until last. He had a hope that it might be a little more personal than any of the others, and that made it worth savoring.

With that in mind, he reached for the book-shaped parcel, his assumption vindicated when a small tag fell from the ribbon declaring it to be from Ciara. As the first vestiges of shy excitement at the thought of opening the last gift making themselves known in the pit of his stomach, he carefully unwrapped the book-shaped parcel to uncover ... well, a book. More importantly, a book on pre-Chantry Andrastianism, something he had mentioned in passing to Fabs in the first week of Drakonis. _She_ had mentioned that Ciara's family had an extensive library in turn, and must have passed on the information to the young Fereldan woman. So he was probably holding the only copy of this book in Ferelden, gifted to him because the little girl he'd saved from an unwanted arranged marriage had asked the princess for advice. _Now there's a complicated feeling,_ he noted in amusement. He was grateful to Ciara, and pleased with the gift, but he was _delighted_ that Fabs had had a hand in it, too.

And now for the princess' own gift on his birthday ...

He glanced up at his valet and secretary watching him, frowning vaguely at the understanding that there was _no_ privacy in his life as king, even if they were trying to be as discreet as possible. The cloth-wrapped bundle came undone easily, his hand fumbling for the slip of parchment that held her message.

_A gift for a good man, and a token for the king's study. With honor and hope that your birthday shall be a merry one, Fabs._

Alistair snorted with laughter at the fact that she had actually signed her name _Fabs_ , rather than _Felicita_ , but his laughter turned to a softer smile at the implication there. It was a nickname he had given her, that only he used, and she had now given him permission twice to continue using it. Surely that meant something was growing between them, didn't it? He certainly hoped so.

The wool beneath his fingers slipped away to uncover dusk-blue silk, soft and cool, and far finer than any of the Orlesian silks he'd encountered. _Must be Antivan silk,_ he realized, setting the slippery fabric onto the bed before it slid out of his grasp entirely. Something thumped onto the floor by his foot. He leaned down to retrieve what must have fallen out of the bundle, raising it to smile at a smooth jade figurine of Andraste. And not Andraste the warrior, or Andraste the singer, but Andraste the mother, kneeling to embrace a child running into her arms. A softer, far more rare portrayal of the Bride of the Maker than was often seen. His thumb stroked over the back of the carven child's back, already knowing where this would go. It was, as the note said, a token for his study, and would have pride of place among the other oddments and little statuettes Demelza had gathered for him over the years.

 _So what's the pressie for me,_ Alistair found himself wondering, setting the little figurine to one side to investigate the folds of soft blue silk. It turned out to be an undershirt that fitted him almost perfectly, the hem, neckline, and cuffs embroidered with griffons in a darker shade of blue silk thread with silver embellishment. He suddenly recalled the image of Fabs sitting in his study window, sewing something mysterious that was now no mystery at all. _How long has she been planning on giving this to me?_ It was beautiful, almost too beautiful to wear, but unlike the belt bestowed by Orlesian hands, he would be _very_ pleased to wear this tonight. Indeed, it was with a certain amount of reluctance that he took it off.

He cast his eye over the array of gifts he had been given, touched by the thought that had gone into most of them. They were gifts for _him_ , for _Alistair_ , not for the king or the crown he wore. Maybe he was going to come out of this with not only a wife, but a few friends, too.

That was a pretty good way to start off a birthday.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fabs experiences hopes, doubts, and an old adversary.

"You look fabulous tonight, Fabs."

Felicita laughed as she passed under Alistair's arm to the rhythm of the dance, linking hands with him to resume the stately promenade. He smiled back at her, seemingly delighted with her response to his compliment.

"You approve of my Fereldan attire this evening, then?" she asked teasingly, fighting to hold in another chuckle as his gaze dropped to take in the gown she had worn under sufferance in the first place.

It was in the Ferelden style, less full of skirt than she was used to, the bodice and sleeves fitted, but with one important difference - the neckline was significantly lower than most noble ladies of his land wore it. She had insisted on that, fed up with having to watch him try his best not to talk directly to Delphine and Callista's cleavage. Admittedly, now he had the same problem with her, but there was something uniquely flattering about the way his gaze swept down her form and returned to meet her eyes with a grin that spoke to her of affectionate desire. He _wanted_ her, that much was clear. It was as good a place to start as any, in her view.

Alistair cleared his throat, trying very hard not to look down again. "It suits you very well," he managed eventually. "Is it comfortable for you? I know it's ... different to what you normally wear."

"There are some changes I would make, certainly," she agreed easily enough. "But not so very many."

"I look forward to seeing them," he said, and abruptly blushed, stammering out an apology. "That is, when ... I mean, _if_ ... Of course I mean if, I haven't made any decisions ... Well, I _have_ , I just ..." He trailed off helplessly.

Felicita laughed gently as she twirled under his arm once again. "I am very glad to have made the short list, as it were," she assured him, her smile perfectly presented to those watching. Only the softness of her gaze gave credence to the tender warmth she shared with him through that smile.

Alistair's own smile softened in response as his arm wrapped about her back, promenading once again to the beat of the music. "I wanted to thank you for my birthday gifts," he said suddenly. "How did you get the shirt the right size?"

She smiled again, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes. "Your friend Demelza was very helpful," she told him in an easy tone. "She smuggled one of your more favored shirts out of your rooms so I could take measurements."

Alistair snorted with laughter. "Yes, that sounds like Dem," he commented, meeting her flirtatious smile with a comfortable smile of his own. "She likes you, you know."

"I am honored to know that," she answered, feeling a small thrill in the pit of her stomach that she had somehow managed to gain the approval of the king's best friend. "She takes a little getting used to, but I like her, too. We have something very profound in common."

Confusion touched his expression. "What would that be?"

Felicita's own expression lit up like a sunrise. "You, Alistair," she told him softly. "We are both rather fond of you."

His jaw hung loose for a moment as he attempted to assimilate this information. "You, uh ... you like me?" he asked, his tone not so much disbelieving as searching for confirmation.

 _Well, you did want to make yourself a contender. This is no time for beating around the bush._ She swallowed down the tight nervousness in her throat before answering him.

"I like you very much, Alistair," she assured him.

He let out a low huff of breath, almost as though he had been holding it in anticipation of her reply, and a broad grin lightened his features. "Well, that's just lovely, isn't it?" he declared. "I like you, you like me, Dem likes both of us. We all like Maria. Everyone's very ... likeable."

Felicita couldn't help the teasing edge to her smile in the face of his nervous agreement with her. _He **does** like me._ All right, so he was right on the edge of babbling, but that was a good sign, wasn't it? Perhaps Ceri was right, after all. As they turned with the rest of the dancers to perambulate in the other direction, she caught sight of Arl Eamon, scowling directly at her in a decidedly unfriendly fashion. The expression on his face sent a chill through her, guiding her eyes to certain other faces in the noble crowd - all members of the Landsmeet who were present in the city. There was a fair amount of disapproval on several of those faces. It was a harsh reminder that Alistair liking her was not enough to win a place by his side for a lifetime.

"What was it that Arl Eamon gave to you?" she asked, suddenly recalling the surprisingly tense moment that had followed the arl's presentation of the king's birthday gift from himself.

Alistair's brow knotted unhappily. "A replica of my mother's amulet," he said shortly. "No doubt he can feel his grip on me slipping and thought to remind me he was my guardian for a while in my youth."

She snorted derisively. "He allowed his wife to make you sleep in the kennels," she pointed out - Anora had filled her in on a few details of the king's childhood that had horrified her. "I should not imagine those are memories you wish to recall."

"Actually, I rather liked the kennels," he admitted, his frown smoothing as he spoke. "It was always warm, even on cold nights."

Felicita felt a soft laugh escape her throat. "Every time I think I understand you, you surprise me again," she told him, pleased when his frown disappeared entirely into a wide smile.

"You know, I feel much the same way about you sometimes," he commented. "You don't much seem to like dogs, but I saw you cooing over that cat and her kittens under the dais this morning."

"Cats have more grace than dogs, your majesty," she answered with teasing smartness.

Alistair's grin widened. "Did you have cats growing up?"

"I did, as a matter of fact," she admitted in amusement. "A kitten for my seventh birthday. She provided me with several dozen kittens herself over the years, but sadly, she is gone now."

"Do you miss her?"

Felicita's smile was just a little sad as she remembered her first pet. "I do, sometimes," she admitted. "But she left me several daughters to love in her place, and of course, now I have her granddaughters to enjoy. I started with one, and I believe I have something in the region of thirty or so cats now."

"Thirty?" Alistair looked stunned. "How do you manage them all?"

She laughed at his consternation. "How do you manage all your hounds?" she countered. "Cats are far more independent than dogs, Alistair. They catch their own meals, and keep their own hours. All they really need me for is love, and I have a lot to give them."

He still looked slightly bemused. "Can you tell them all apart?"

"Most of the time," she assured him. "Though only a very few of them spend much time with me. The rest have become palace cats in their way - they refuse to be collared."

"I see," he said, rather weakly. "Are you really that averse to dogs, then?"

She smiled gently back at him. "I have not had much occasion to become friendly with dogs," she pointed out. "Your mabari are amazing creatures, and the puppies are very sweet. I think, with time, I could become as fond of them as I am of cats."

"I hope so," was Alistair's reply, his smile offering what she hoped was a reason to be glad as the music came to an end.

He bowed low over her hand as she curtsied, his breath tickling her knuckles for a long moment before they rose. To her surprise, he then tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow to escort her back to Anora, with whom she had been passing the time when he had asked her to dance in the first place. He hadn't exactly singled her out in asking her - as the king, he'd had to dance with all his prospective brides, including Maria before she'd grown weary and needed to go to bed. Indeed, he still had Ciara to go, who was clearly his objective as he bowed once again, turning to cross the hall as the musicians played the call for the next dance.

Anora smiled at Felicita as the princess sat down beside her, finally able to relax a little. The young man on the ternya's other side leaped up and scurried away to the banqueting table, returning with a fresh goblet of wine for the princess, which he offered to her with a nervous bow.

"Thank you, my lord." Felicita inclined her head to the young man as she took the cup from his hand, her lips twitching in amusement as he sank a little shakily back to his seat beside Anora.

"Have you met Alron, your highness?" Anora asked, not giving him a chance to recover from his brush with royalty with a hint of rather impish amusement of her own.

"I have not," Felicita told her, twisting to take a closer look at the young nobleman. "You are Bann Ceorlic's grandson, are you not?"

"I am, your highness," Alron confirmed, glancing uncertainly at Anora as though expecting her to give permission for him to speak to another woman. "The younger, I am afraid. I have no expectations on my grandfather's position."

"And no temperament for the Church?" the princess asked, her political intuition growing the longer she spent in Anora's company.

The young man managed a faint laugh. "I am more of poet than a priest, your highness," he admitted ruefully. "My grandfather _had_ arranged a marriage for me, but I understand it has been postponed indefinitely."

 _Ah. So this is the one Alistair prevented from being married to Ciara._ Felicita managed a warm smile, though her eyes turned toward the main floor, where Alistair was dancing with his only Fereldan lady. There was a lot of laughter there, she noted - smiles that were warm and comfortable, and made her heart ache.

"They look very well together, don't they?" Anora murmured to her, those insightful blue eyes seeing perhaps a little too much in the princess' carefully composed expression.

"They do," Felicita agreed quietly. "And why should they not? She is the flower of Ferelden nobility, and he, the king."

"I think they match a little too much," Anora commented. "The queen should compliment the king, not slavishly resemble him. They are a beautiful set to look at, certainly, but she has no confidence to express herself with. Of course, there _are_ certain lords who would delight in having an easily intimidated queen to use for their own gains."

"And the Landsmeet has a great deal of influence over this particular decision."

Felicita sipped her wine thoughtfully. Now she was seated and still, she could feel the gnawing twist of aching in her lower back and abdomen, quietly wishing for some elfroot to dull the bleeding pains she endured every month. Now was not a good time for them to make themselves known.

"With respect, your highness, the Landsmeet may only express their opinion to the king," Alron offered, glancing between the two women. "The decision is entirely his own, as are all his decisions. He may take advice, but he does not have to adhere to it."

"That is very true," Anora agreed with him. "And if they are made aware of a few of the more unsavory aspects of some of the candidates that have withdrawn, they may yet change their more vocal opinions. An opinion bought is never secure."

"Some men, once bought, will remain true to their benefactor," Felicita pointed out, though she was more interested in the adoring gaze Alron was aiming at Anora whenever the blonde lady looked away from him. _I do not think Ciara need worry about that young man pressing his suit._ A sharp, roiling twinge in her belly made her stiffen, attempting not to show her discomfort. She had only to endure a few hours of dancing and socializing, but her cramps seemed determined to make those hours remaining interminable.

"You are correct, of course," Anora conceded with a smile. Her smile faded as she looked at the princess. "Are you quite well, Felicita? You seem a little wan."

Called out, Felicita scrabbled through her mind for an acceptable answer to give where a man was listening.

"A faint nausea, Anora," she said with a slightly pained smile. "An old friend, you might say."

Understanding gleamed in Anora's eyes. The teryna reached across to squeeze her hand gently, her young male companion apparently completely unaware of the moment of feminine bonding that was passing him by. Anora leaned a little closer and lowered her voice.

"You have gone rather gray around the gills," she told the princess gently. "No one will hold it against you if you excuse yourself on grounds of discomfort. Indeed, your absence will encourage the less palatable members of the courting ladies to expose themselves before the court."

Felicita snorted with laughter, but she did find herself considering this course of action. Not so much to show up a certain pair of ladies, but to dose herself with elfroot potion and lie down. She had spent all day ignoring the waves of pain that came and went, through the joust and melee, the meal, and now the dance. Perhaps it was a good time to bow out for the evening, though she had no wish to disappoint the king.

"Of course, one of the ladies has already managed to turn several minds against herself with her little performance over dinner," Anora went on, her tone resuming its gentle volume once more. "She didn't _really_ believe that none of the rest of you thought to give the king birthday gifts, did she?"

"No, I am quite certain she knew we intended to have our own gifts delivered to him in private," Felicita assured her friend thoughtfully, glad of the distraction from the twisting ache in her belly for now. "She is not so subtly skilled a politician as she believes herself to be."

Anora's snort of derision was hastily turned into a polite cough. "Not skilled at all in feminine politics," she corrected. "Honestly, what possessed her to give him a gift with the clear expectation that he will have to give it back to her in ten days' time?"

Amandine's gift-giving had caused quite a stir, that was for sure. She had waited until the king had received his gifts from his court before offering her own - a luckenbooth brooch of shining silver. It was traditionally a wedding gift in Tantervale, two hearts entwined beneath a crown, and had clearly been given in the unsubtle hope that he might give it back to her by announcing that she was his choice. The self-serving gift - and its very public giving - had created many mutters around the feasting hall, and many of them were not complimentary.

"She is, perhaps, a little desperate," Felicita suggested, hiding the movement of her lips behind her cup. "With Leona's gentle announcement that she is bowing out of the race to the crown over breakfast this morning, Amandine must realize that her mistakes at the beginning have left her at a severe disadvantage."

"Starkhaven has bowed out?" Anora asked, eyes bright with interest. She scanned the room, finding the lady in question seated demurely beside Bann Teagan, deep in conversation with his wife. "How very interesting. Then the king's list to choose from is down from ten to a mere five."

"Four, in actual fact," Felicita murmured, careful to keep her voice so low _only_ Anora could possibly hear her. "Callista is not so interested as she first appears. She is, however, enjoying pulling Delphine's nose at every opportunity."

Anora laughed aloud at this, glancing across the room to where Delphine was definitely in something of a temper. And, of course, now Felicita had pointed it out, the presence of Callista at the Orlesian girl's side, dominating the conversation in that small circle, was very likely the cause of that poisonous look on the pretty face.

"I am very glad to hear that," the blonde teryna admitted quietly, scratching her nose to disguise the words from any erstwhile lip-readers in the room. "An Orlesian queen would not help matters. Alistair is a popular king, but his popularity would plummet with Delphine on the throne beside him."

"With any foreign queen, I imagine," Felicita answered, her eyes following Alistair as Ciara swept under his arm in a fit of giggles.

She was very fond of Ciara, but she could not now deny the jealousy that rose whenever she saw her young friend and the king interacting together. They were so comfortable together; they suited one another. And Ciara was Fereldan - the people would be so _happy_ to have a Fereldan queen.

Anora's gaze was kind as the princess glanced at her. "You should have a little more faith in the populace," she suggested gently. "Above all, they want their king to be happy. They know his history well enough. They want a good _wife_ for him, not just a good queen for themselves."

"Everyone seems so intent upon encouraging me these days," Felicita drawled, disguising her discomfort in amusement for the moment. But that gnawing, twisting ache was refusing to let up. "I am sorry, Anora ... I think I will have to excuse myself. I am very uncomfortable."

"Of course, your highness." Anora rose with her to curtsy as Felicita took her leave, gesturing for the king's valet to come to her side. "I will make your excuses to the king."

"Thank you, ladyship."

With a grateful smile, Felicita took her leave, gracefully avoiding any further conversation with hopeful nobles to slip out of the hall. She pressed one hand over her womb as she walked away from the noise and the music, mounting the stairs to the guest quarters. Hoping some of that warmth would alleviate the pain for now,  she planned to call for Andra and ask for a warmed wheat-bag to be sent to her room. She _felt_ pale; she could well imagine that she looked it, too, given Anora's description of her being gray around the gills. _Thank Andraste that this will be over in just a day or two,_ she thought to herself. Her menses never lasted more than four days, though the irritability beforehand and the pains during made it seem far longer every month.

She heard the music and voice below grow louder for a moment, footsteps hurrying over the rush-covered flagstones.

"Fabs?"

At the top of the stairs, she halted in surprise, turning to find Alistair climbing them in her wake, his handsome face creased in concern for her. He paused with his foot on the top step where she stood, frowning with worry.

"Are you ill?" he asked urgently. "Anora said you weren't feeling well. Shall I call a physician for you?"

Felicita smiled wearily, shaking her head. "I am quite well, Alistair," she assured him. "And I will be myself again in a day or two. It is ... awkward ... to explain. But I can promise you that I will be perfectly well again in time for the trip beyond the city."

"How can you be so sure?" he pressed her, clearly too worried to use a little logic in the face of her confidence. "I really must insist on calling a physician. Even a mage healer. I don't like the idea of you suffering with something."

"Alistair ..." She reached out to lay her hand over his on the stone balustrade. "I am sure because this is something I contend with every month. _Every_ woman knows this part of herself." Her smile gentled as comprehension began to dawn on his face, along with a nervous blush. "I do not need a physician. I need elfroot, a warm something to hold to my stomach, and a quiet place to rest. That is all."

"It hurts _every_ month?" he asked, apparently horrified by this news.

"Not for every woman," Felicita assured him, amused and touched by his concern. "I am one of the unfortunate ones, I am afraid. You should return to your guests. I am quite well."

"What do you need again?" Alistair asked, turning his hand beneath her to gather her fingers into his palm and stroke his thumb over her knuckles. "Elfroot, something warm, and quiet?"

She nodded, biting her lip as something inside seemed to tremble at the gentle passage of his touch over her fingers. "I am capable of finding them for myself," she began, but he shook his head.

"I will make sure Andra brings you what you need," he said, smiling a little at her clear surprise that he knew which of the maids had been assigned to her. "Go and get as comfortable as you can. And please look after yourself, Fabs. I know a little about living with pain; I would not wish it on anyone."

Felicita's expression grew troubled as he spoke, her other hand reaching to envelop his palm between both her own. "You live with pain?"

Alistair's smile was resigned. "I live with the Blight, Fabs," he reminded her. "It is not a fate I would wish on anyone."

"Does it pain you so very much?" she asked, stepping down one stair to be a little closer, unable to hide her own concern for him. She had never even considered that to be a Grey Warden was to endure pain for a lifetime.

With sad eyes, he raised her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles gently. "Only when I am alone," he promised her. "I have lived with it so long that any distraction is enough to set it aside."

If she had been just a little more secure in her place, in his affections, she would have offered a kiss to his cheek, moved by the quiet strength she had never before realized was such a core part of him. She could only hope that the wife he chose would be good enough to know such things and act upon them, to look after him as he needed to be looked after in private moments. Alistair's smile returned as she looked up at him, his hand squeezing hers.

"Go and rest, Fabs," he told her gently. "I'll send Andra to you."

"And _you_ should enjoy the rest of your birthday," she countered, glad to see him laugh in answer to that.

"If I do, will you promise to look after yourself this evening?" he bargained in amusement.

"I promise," she assured him, her own smile rising in answer as he kissed her knuckles again. "Good night, Alistair. And happy birthday."

"Good night, Fabs."

With a last smile, he released her hand and turned back down the stairs, calling to the nearest servant with instructions to find Andra and tell her what her Antivan mistress needed. Felicita watched him for a moment, her smile fading as the cramps in her belly intensified in the wake of his leaving. One hand pressed to her midriff, she hurried out of sight, eager to lie down and will the pain away. _Only another day or so,_ she reminded herself. She would be herself again soon enough. But knowing that he cared enough to abandon his guests just to make sure she was well was warming to her heart. No matter how hard she tried, she could not help caring for Alistair Theirin. Perhaps there was still hope that politics would not rule the day when it came for his decision to be made.

Perhaps.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alistair has a fantastic outing.

"This is the most disgusting thing I have ever done."

A bony elbow nudged Alistair's ribs. He glanced over at Dem, blinking in surprise to see her grinning as she jerked her head toward the other side of their camp. Princess Felicita and Ceridwyn of Kirkwall were skinning and dismembering dinner together. He couldn't help grinning with his friend - Ceri patently had no problem with the blood and gore under her hands, but Fabs was another matter entirely. She was grimacing and delicately holding the deer hide up between one finger and thumb as she sliced it away from the flesh under Fergus' instruction. It was quite an education to see a royal princess attempting something so obviously outside her experience, and as much as she was clearly despising every second, Alistair couldn't help a gentle surge of affection for the fact that she _was_ doing it. She could so easily have refused the gory job, yet there she was, delicately grimacing, quietly complaining, and _still_ learning how to skin a deer with nothing but a knife and her bare hands.

While Alistair and Dem were building the fire, with the help of a certain little lady from Rivain and her uncanny ability to set fire to herself if left unsupervised, Ciara was teaching Callista how to prepare vegetables for a stew. It came as no surprise that Ciara was good with her hands, or that she knew the ins and outs of Ferelden cooking, but again, it was a surprise to see Callista scowling in fierce concentration as she slowly peeled potatoes. It was heartening to know that these ladies got on so well with one another - more so that they had not objected to the outing as it was presented to them. After all, Dem _had_ said he should get them to do something he enjoyed doing, and there was little Alistair enjoyed more than getting away from the city for a night, to camp under the stars and see to his own needs in the wilds, just as he had done during those fraught months that had forged his friendship with Demelza in the first place. He didn’t get much opportunity to do it these days, if at all. Eamon had objected, of course; with the Landsmeet at which the king was expected to make his announcement just two days away, the arl desperately wanted to keep Alistair under his eye. Surprisingly, however, Anora had supported the idea, and at her suggestion, Alistair had put Teagan in charge during his absence. No doubt that was sticking in Eamon's craw even now.

Their number was a little reduced for this outing - Leona had quietly bowed out of the contest but asked permission to remain in Ferelden until the announcement, staying in the Chantry with Grand Cleric Perpetua; Amandine had left two days after the birthday celebration, following an awkward moment of injudicious eavesdropping which had shared with her exactly how the servants had seen her clumsily self-serving gift-giving to the king; and Delphine had outright _refused_ to leave the city at all, declaring that there was no point when she wanted to be a queen of civilization, such as it was in Denerim. So the little party consisted of the ladies Alistair actually _liked_ spending time with, for differing reasons - Ciara, Callista, Fabs, Ceri, and Maria - as well as Demelza, Fergus, and a few carefully selected guards.

"Can we put the big stick on now, Mr. Alistair?" Maria piped up from beside him, dragging Alistair's attention back to where she was hugging one of the logs they had brought from Denerim, just in case they couldn't find any decent firewood out here.

"Not yet, mischief," he told her, relaxing as he reached over to tweak her nose. "We have to build the fire up so we can cook on it, and then afterward we'll put that big stick on top so we stay warm all night."

"Does the hot really go all the way to the tents from here?" she asked, tilting her head toward the semi-circle of tents being pitched by the guards.

That had been the one job Fergus had put his foot down about not allowing the inexperienced ladies to try. A poorly butchered haunch of venison was easily dealt with; likewise, strangely prepared vegetables could be ignored; even a failed attempt at a fire wasn't the end of the world. But if they wanted water-proof, wind-proof tents to sleep in, the guards were the ones to do it. Alistair couldn't help agreeing - he didn't want to think of the consequences if the ladies ended up sleeping in half-an-inch of rainwater. Winter hadn't quite let go of Ferelden yet.

"Unfortunately, it doesn't," Alistair admitted to Maria, drawing her between the jut of his knees to watch as Dem fought with the kindling to get a decent flame going. "But that's why you won't be in a tent on your own. When people sleep next to each other, they keep each other warm."

"Like me and the princess when it's all frosty in the mornings?" the little girl asked, reluctantly letting go of her log to twist and perch herself on Alistair's lap.

Alistair chuckled. "Yes, exactly like that."

"But when summer comes, won't we be too hot?" Maria pressed.

Alistair could feel his mouth working and no sound coming out. The innocent assumption that Fabs would still be sharing a bed with her in the summer that was coming was rather sweet, but unfortunately quite wrong. If things went his way, he and Maria were going to have to have words about who had the most right to share a bed with Fabs; if they didn't go his way, Fabs would be back in Antiva. He knew which one he was rooting for, but he didn't dare share that until he'd addressed the Landsmeet and, you know, actually _proposed_.

"In summer, you won't need to share a bed with anyone," Dem piped up, raising her head from ground-level now the fire was licking at the small-to-medium sized kindling sticks. "You might even want to sleep outside without a tent, because summer nights in Ferelden are beautiful."

Maria made a face at her. "You can't sleep outside without a tent, silly," she declared imperiously. "What if your blankets blow away?"

"Ah, but what if it's so hot you don't need blankets?" Dem countered with a grin. "Mr. Kingness Alistair there has even been known to sleep on the ground in nothing but his smalls when it was _really_ hot."

Alistair groaned as Maria's head swung around to fix him with an incredulous look.

"Thanks for that, Dem."

"I live to serve, Longshanks," Dem answered with an impish cast to her smile, reaching to begin building the fire so they could cook on it.

"But it doesn't get hot here," Maria pointed out, still staring at Alistair as though he might have lost his mind briefly.

"It felt hot to me," he defended himself, tweaking her nose more as a means to distract her than anything. "I didn't grow up in Rivain where the sun is always shining."

"Is that why you're all brown spotty on your skin?" Maria asked, apparently fascinated.

"I don't actually know," Alistair admitted. "It would make sense, wouldn't it? I've only met one other person from Rivain before you, and she had darker skin like yours. The spots are freckles, by the way."

"But the princess doesn't have skin as dark as mine, and she doesn't go spotty in the sun, either," the little girl observed.

"Freckly. I suppose you're right," he agreed. "But Antiva is a different place to Rivain. Lady Callista's skin does the same thing as the princess'."

"But Ceri is white and pink and not spotty, and you're not really white and pink as much as her, and Ciara is less white than her but still pink and spotty in the sun," Maria went on, working her way through the differences between the people she liked best.

"Everyone is different, Maria," Alistair told her, clutching at straws to get out of a conversation he wasn't entirely sure he was equipped to be having, even with a child. "Wouldn't it be a boring place if everyone looked like everyone else?"

She seemed to consider this for a long moment, turning it over in her mind before nodding in agreement with him. And, just like that, the subject was dropped in favor of discussing what was going to happen after dinner. Conversing with a ten-year-old was certainly stimulating, he had to give it that.

And Alistair had to admit later on, as they huddled about the fire wrapped in their cloaks against the rising night chill, that he was having a lot of fun. Everything in Denerim was so regimented, so structured; he rarely had the opportunity to simply be himself to this extent. He could tell that Callista and Fabs were not exactly comfortable in the wilds, but were also stubborn enough to stay the night, despite several offers to have them escorted back to the city to warm up. Ceri was completely at ease; Maria found so much to enjoy in the simplicity of putting together the meal and eating it with nothing more than a spoon and her fingers that everything else was a bonus. But Ciara was the one who had surprised him the most.

The sweet-tempered, shy young noble from Amaranthine had obviously spent a fair amount of time in the wilds herself, more than happy to roll up her sleeves and get on with things without argument or complaint. She was also unafraid of sharing the jug of spiced beer that was circling the campfire, chattier and brighter out here where no one would judge her for it than he'd ever noticed her being in the city. Still, nothing seared itself on his memory quite as deeply as the sound of young Ciara joining in with himself and Demelza _roaring_ their way through tavern songs, with fits and stops and giggles, to the combined amusement and _be_ musement of their companions.

"Where did you learn that?" Callista demanded through her laughter at the end of a particularly bawdy rendition of _Calenhad's Crossing_.

Ciara giggled, taking another swig from the jug before passing it on. "My grandfather fought in the war to retake Ferelden from the Orlesians," she explained cheerfully. "He used to invite his old friends to the manor, and they'd stay up late singing and telling stories, and if I was quiet, I could stay up with them. I was word perfect on _Andraste's Mabari_ by the time I was seven."

"Look at you with your bawdy, irreverent musical tastes," Ceri teased her from where she was leaning against Fergus' side.

"There's nothing wrong with a good tavern song or seven," Alistair declared happily, grunting as Dem handed him the jug. "Thank you - the court would be much more fun if they let us do things the way normal people do."

"Tell us a story, Ciara," Maria piped up. The little girl was sitting on Fabs' lap, wrapped up in both her own cloak and the princess', sleepy but eager not to be left out.

"What kind of story would you like to hear, little lady?" Ciara countered, eyes bright in the firelight. "I know ghost stories, and stories about heroes, and stories about men who were supposed to be heroes but never quite managed it."

"D'you know bedtime stories?" Maria asked hopefully, drawing a gentler ripple of laughter from the adults around the fire.

"Oooh, I can tell you lots of stories for bedtime," Ciara promised her. "But I think you'd really like one of the songs I was talking about, the one about Andraste's mabari."

"Andraste didn't have a mabari," the child scoffed, but she giggled at the snort of laughter that went up from the guards accompanying them.

"Didn't have a mabari?" Alistair objected in a merry tone. "Andraste was Fereldan, you know. She was almost a queen - why would you think she didn't have a mabari?"

Maria's eyes went wide as her mouth fell open. "But ... the Mother never said anything about a dog."

"Oh, well, the Chant doesn't talk about animals," Dem assured her with a dismissive wave of her hand. "But _everyone_ in Ferelden knows about Andraste's mabari. Even the elves."

"Why do only the Fereldans know about this famous mabari?" Callista asked in amusement.

"We're just best at doing history properly," Alistair declared with an expansive wave of his hand, managing not to laugh at the sheer audacity of this claim. "It doesn't have to be written in a book to be proper history, you know."

"Sing the song about the dog," Maria demanded, tired of the debate going back and forth. She was clearly exhausted after their long day, but the last thing any child wants is to go to bed earlier than everyone else when they're obviously having fun.

"Fergus?" Alistair grinned over at his friend. "Care to start us off?"

Fergus rolled his eyes, ignoring the wide grin from Ceri at his side.

"As my king commands," he answered, drawing a breath. _"Ooohhhh ...You know Andraste's old mabari, he don't show up in the Chant ..."_

The little thicket rang with the raucous sound of singing for a good hour or more. Each time one song ended, one of the Fereldans would start up another, until Maria was fast asleep on the princess' lap and the moons were high in the sky. Alistair could not remember having had this much fun in a single evening for a very long time, privately making a personal promise to do this more often. Even the guards seemed relaxed in his company, something he had not expected at all, and to his surprise, he realized it was because, out here, he wasn't the _king_. He was just Alistair again. Everyone around him deferred to Dem's judgment because _he_ did, falling into the old habit of letting his diminutive friend take charge as he had done right from the start of their friendship. Perhaps it wasn't to the liking of everyone in their little party - Fabs had been very quiet, after all - but surely there were ways to make it more enjoyable for those people in future? He couldn't help but hope for that. At least Maria seemed to be enjoying herself.

And, of course, one perk of actually _being_ the king meant that no one expected him to take any of the night watches. He'd be able to get a full night of sleep out here, where no one could find him without alerting others before they got close enough to wake him up. All that was missing was Lady, his own mabari. Next time he did this, he was definitely bringing a few of the dogs from the kennels. _Mind you, the next time I do this, it is going to be in the summer,_ he thought as he rolled himself into the furs of his bedroll, feeling a guilty pang for the fact that the ladies were probably not going to sleep much in this chill. Though spring was in the air, the nights were still bitter at the end of Drakonis.

His mind wandered to the women who had accompanied him, a faint smile touching his lips as he remembered certain moments from the day. Of all the women, Callista and Fabs had been the most out of their depth, he knew - and he felt a little guilty about that, too - but he was impressed with the way they had simply knuckled down to whatever they were asked to do. After all, how many princesses had ever skinned and dismembered their own dinner? How many noble ladies of Nevarra had peeled vegetables? And seeing Ciara come so much out of her timid shell this evening had been something of a joy to behold. Truth be told, any one of those three would make a wonderful queen of Ferelden, each in their own way, but only one of them made his heart skip a beat when she smiled.

He rolled onto his back, tucking the fur about his chin, and smiled again. In two days, he would address the Landsmeet and tell them he had made his choice. In two days, he would propose to the woman of his choice. He hoped she'd say yes. She _had_ come to Ferelden to take part in this admittedly humiliating bride-finding month, though he knew she hadn't actually known that was the point until she got here. But she'd stayed, and more than that, she had engaged with everything presented to her, from trips to the market to dreadful theatricals to his birthday. He wouldn't have held it against her if she had declined to come on this particular trip, but the sheer stubbornness that had brought her out here with them, despite her obvious discomfort, made him even more proud of her dignity in the face of so much unusual nonsense. He wasn't entirely sure she _deserved_ to be married to him, if he was totally honest with himself - quite apart from the bastard thing, and the not-raised-a-royal thing, he considered himself to be somewhat less of a catch than the rest of the world seemed to think.

But _she_ liked him, or at least he thought she did. If she didn't like him, why was she still here? Why had she made him that beautiful shirt for his birthday? Why - and his smile grew to a grin as he considered this - why had she blushed so prettily when they had sparred together and ended in a closer clinch than even he had been expecting? He could still remember clearly the feel of her pressed against him, both then and in the cupboard when he had been hiding from Delphine. It was his turn to blush as he recalled how she had not scolded him for his accidental squeeze of her breast in the darkness, either. She _was_ beautiful, it was true. But he'd never met anyone quite like her - never known anyone who had made kindness her shield against the world, who could be relied upon to get adorably excited when talking about the Divine or others he could call his friends, who was as interested in learning as she was in teaching. There was steel beneath her softness, he was sure, though he had not yet seen a hint of it. She would be a fabulous queen. _A fabulous wife, too._

He could not help but wonder what it would be like to be intimate with her. To kiss her and taste the wine on her lips; to hold her in his arms and know that she truly was his, as much as he was hers. To feel those long legs tighten about his hips as her back arched in pleasure, see the softness of her limbs harden with rippling tension released in the throes of love. To hear her moan his name in breathless wonder ...

Outside the tent, he could hear the movement of the guards as they organized their watch, quiet voices in the darkness more a comfort and reassurance than annoyance. And in the midst of that quiet murmur, the voice he had been imagining raised in ecstasy spoke softly.

"Forgive me, Demelza. I did not mean to disturb you."

Alistair lifted his head to look at the closed tent flap, a faint frown touching his brow in curiosity as Dem answered.

"Oh, I'm hard to disturb, princess," the elven Warden assured her. "Can't you sleep?"

There was a pause before Fabs answered, a pause in which Alistair could imagine her tired smile.

"I am unused to sleeping on the ground," she said, the richness of her Antivan accent more pronounced with her weariness. "To any of this, in truth. Does the king often leave the city in this way?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Dem told her, her voice underpinned by the sound of embers crackling. Poking at the fire, Alistair realized, as she spoke. "I don't think Alistair's done much of anything in the last decade that he actually enjoys."

His frown, which had been fading, resumed at that. _She really does pay closer attention than I give her credit for,_ he reflected, grateful that his friend had noticed but mildly embarrassed that she had chosen to share this particular observation with the princess.

"He should be free to do as he wishes, within reason," Fabs was saying, her tone troubled. "It is ... sad ... that it has taken something as unusual as this past month for him to be permitted to find pleasure in his pastimes."

"When he's married, his wife will just have to make sure he gets plenty of opportunity to be himself," was Dem's robust response. "That's the queen's job, isn't it? The king looks after the country, and the queen looks after him."

Fabs seemed to laugh a little weakly at this. "She will be a very fortunate woman, to be Alistair's wife," she said, and Alistair felt his heart leap in his chest. "He is a good man, very ... very easy to love."

He wanted to rise up, go out there, tell her that _she_ was his choice ... but something held him back. Some fear, perhaps, that she might reject him, even after hearing her come so close to saying that she wanted to be that wife. Besides, it wasn't exactly romantic to leap out of a bedroll and propose to her in front of his best friend, and she was so tired after today ... No, he should be patient. He _could_ be patient.

Only two more days.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ciara gets a nasty shock.

An air of expectant tension hung over the palace in Denerim today. The Landsmeet had been called; the arls and banns had entered the hall, the doors closed firmly behind them. There was a great deal of business to go over, but the question on everyone's lips was the same. Who was the king going to marry?

The ladies themselves were not permitted to be present, for obvious reasons. The tension hung over those who remained as heavily as it did over the city outside, each one dealing with it in her own way. Despite her certainty that she would not be chosen, Ceridwyn of Kirkwall was sparring in the palace grounds to keep her mind off things; Callista of Nevarra had retired to the library with Maria, ostensibly to read while keeping out of everyone's way; Delphine of Orlais was obsessively going through the contents of her trunk, as though trying to determine which of her gowns was the most queenly. And Ciara of Amaranthine? She found herself in conversation with someone who, up until a week ago, she had thought she would despise on sight.

In truth, Bann Ceorlic's grandson, Alron, was nowhere near the monster she had braced herself to look over. Even with the king's assurance that she could not be forced to marry anyone, Ciara had expected to have to find something in the man she might be able to consider a positive. Yet Alron himself proved to be a quiet, studious sort only a couple of years her senior, as in awe of the court of Ferelden as she was herself. Better yet, he was as enthusiastic about marrying a complete stranger as she was. Still, for the sake of her parents, they had made an attempt at spending a little time together. This morning's meeting was no different to any other she had shared with him; indeed, since he, too, was excluded from the Landsmeet, they had elected to fill the time before the king's announcement furthering their friendly acquaintance.

"She has been very quiet these last two days, but it is plain for anyone to see that the king intends to ask her," she was saying as they promenaded around the rose garden under the watchful eyes of her appointed Highever bodyguard. "I do not understand why she should be so withdrawn. She loves him, and he feels the same for her in his heart, I am sure."

"There are some, Lady Ciara, who believe he intends to choose you," Alron told her. "In light of his intervention in our own families' machinations. It does not surprise me that the princess may have fallen victim to believing some of those rumors, especially given that certain of the nobles have been repeating them."

"It worries me," Ciara confessed with a frown. "Princess Felicita carries her kindness in her heart and on her sleeve; that others should be so cruel as to suggest that she is somehow unworthy of the king to her face ... it makes me angry."

"You are very fond of her, are you not?" he asked, his curiosity tempered with friendly warmth. "And she of you. I imagine she would swallow her disappointment to be happy for you, should the outcome not be what you expect."

"I do not think she could," Ciara argued, shaking her head. "I have not known her to lie in all this time. I do not believe she is capable of such a pretence when her own heart is aching."

"And do you truly not wish to marry the king yourself?"

She snorted, hastily covering the reaction with a polite bout of genteel coughing. "I have no desire to marry _anyone_ at this time," she reminded him. "As you well know."

"Truly, Lady Ciara, marriage is the last thing on my mind," Alron promised her with a low laugh. "It isn't that you are not beautiful, accomplished, and so forth - I simply do not believe I shall _ever_ marry."

Ciara bit down on a warm smile in answer to his fervently stated intention. "Lord Alron, please do not repeat yourself again," she assured him. "I have no interest in marrying you either, and there is no power in the land that can force us into such a joining. I must confess, I _had_ thought you would be something of a monster."

"Oh, no, that would be my brother, Atycan," he said dismissively. "A brutish lout of the first order. I know he is my brother and I should love him, but I cannot _stand_ him."

"And he is to be Bann when your grandfather passes?" she asked warily.

"Well, the king has to approve the passing of the title," Alron pointed out, "but I think it very likely that Atycan will be the next Bann, unless he dies horribly in some duel or other."

"Is that likely to happen?" Ciara asked, her voice edged with mild horror at this insight into just how brutish Alron's brother was.

"If I can arrange it, yes," he told her honestly. "The world would be a far better place without my brother, Lady Ciara, and the Bannorn, safer."

"But if you were to become Bann, surely you will have to marry to beget heirs," she said, feeling her way through a conversation that was more than a little complex in its subtleties. "And yet you say you will _never_ marry."

Alron smiled, shaking his head. "No, you are quite right," he conceded. "Perhaps I should amend that then. The woman I might wish to marry will never have me."

"You cannot know that for certain, Alron." Ciara shook her own head at his confident declaration. "Have you not spoken to her?"

Her companion laughed, just a little hopelessly. "There is no need, Ciara," he insisted in a gentle tone. "I adore her. I admire her strength and courage, her intelligence and wit. She insists that her beauty has faded, though I do not see it. But she has been hurt too often by ambitious men for her to trust anyone of noble birth, especially one in my position with everything to gain from a marriage to her. I would not allow her to believe me capable of using her in such a way as she has been used before."

"So you will stay her friend and let your heart wither?"

Alron paused, and for a moment she could have sworn he was fighting not to laugh at her romanticized view of what unrequited loved truly was. He took her hand between his own, patting her knuckles beneath his palm.

"I swear to you, my dear little friend, I will not turn cold and heartless," he promised. "And if you ever need me, I will stand at your back and defend you from the ambitions of heartless men."

"That isn't what I was asking," she argued, pulling her hand away as she blushed under his smile.

"No, it isn't," he agreed. "But it is the truth."

Ciara stared him for a moment, her eyes narrowing at the smile on his face. "I think you're teasing me, Lord Alron," she accused him with a mild sense of offense.

"I do believe you're right, Lady Ciara," he agreed, laughing as she slapped at his arm. "But, in my defense, I -"

"Ciara! Lady Ciara, it's horrible, you got to come _now!"_

Ciara whirled around at the sound of that voice, startled to find Maria rushing toward her along the paths of the rose garden in floods of tears. The little girl reached her just as she crouched to catch the child, throwing short arms around Ciara's neck to sob into her neck. Ciara glanced up at Alron, utterly bemused and more than a little concerned. What could possibly have happened to upset Maria this much?

"Sweetling, what is it?" she asked, gently drawing the scrunched up face away from her neck to wipe the tears from Maria's cheeks. "Did something happen while you were reading with Callista?"

Maria nodded, hiccuping as she tried very hard to stop crying. Ciara waited, fighting down an urge to press the child for more detail. She'd learned that, when it came to Maria, patience was its own reward. Eventually the little girl swallowed hard, sniffling back the last of her tears.

"Me and C'lista was - were - reading about Caled's ham and making a country," she managed in a broken voice. "And-and the princess, she came in and she said goodbye!"

Alarm flared in Ciara's mind, but she did not dare let it show too obviously, in case it set Maria off again.

"Goodbye?" she repeated. "Are you _sure_ she was saying goodbye, Maria?"

Maria nodded vehemently. "She gave me a dolly and a kiss and said she was going home 'cos Mr. Kingness is going to marry you, and she's going to write to me, but I can't read properly yet and I won't be able to read her letters!" she wailed, heartbroken. "And she wasn't crying like grown ups don't cry when they want to, and C'lista told her to stay, and she didn't listen!"

Ciara rose sharply to her feet, taking the child's hand. "Let's go to the gates," she told the little girl. "Perhaps she hasn't left yet."

"Is there anything I can do, Lady Ciara?" Alron asked, one hand on her arm to stay her leaving very briefly.

She glanced down at the little girl holding tightly to her hand, acutely aware that she herself had almost predicted this might happen in conversation with him just now. She should have trusted her own instincts and stayed close to Felicita! But berating herself now would do nothing. They _had_ to stop the future Queen of Ferelden from leaving over a silly misunderstanding.

"Find Warden-Commander Tabris and tell her that Princess Felicita is leaving in the belief that she is not what the king wants," she told Alron. Demelza could storm the Landsmeet if necessary - she'd done it before, after all. "She'll know what to do."

"As you wish."

With the swiftest bow she had ever seen from a Fereldan noble, Alron spun away, somehow managing to run without actually breaking _into_ a run in the direction of the palace proper. Ciara turned to look down at Maria.

"Now then ... let's catch the princess and tie her up somewhere so she can't leave."

With Maria clinging to her hand, Ciara _did_ run, ignoring the disapproving looks from the superfluous nobles lingering in the public gardens of the palace. If they weren't important enough to be in the Landsmeet, they weren't important enough to worry about offending them, in her opinion. A month of exposure to noble women with confidence in their own position and influence had done wonders for Ciara's sense of self-esteem, even if she still seemed just a little afraid of her own shadow at times. Besides, this was more important than her reputation - this was her _friend_ , hurting over a misapprehension and compounding that hurt by making a judgment without all the facts. Until they could produce the king to set her straight, Ciara was just going to have to do the best she could with the wits she had available.

Breathless, Ciara rounded the corner by the gate, just in time to see the Antivan ambassadorial coach trundle out into the city. Callista was standing on the steps into the palace, her hands on her hips, and her expression defeated. The Nevarran woman met Ciara's horrified gaze, shaking her head as Maria abandoned them to press her face to the gates, calling to the departing coach.

The princess was gone.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alistair presides over the Landsmeet, and gets a nasty shock of his own.

The Landsmeet was an old Fereldan tradition. Every few months, the arls and banns of the country would gather in the king's presence to shout at each other about various matters that held influence over the governance and future of the kingdom. The last one had been at the end of Harvestmere, almost a full five months ago, and had ended with Alistair's agreement to Arl Eamon's proposal to invite multiple ladies of good birth to Denerim so that he might choose one of them for a queen. _That_ Landsmeet had been entirely in Eamon's hands. _This_ one ... Well, it wasn't going quite so well for the old arl.

Alistair stood in the gallery overlooking the hall where the nobles were gathered, leaning comfortably on his hands against the smooth wooden railing with a very faint smile playing about his lips. He wasn't aware of the expression; even if he had been, he wouldn't have made much effort to wipe that smile away. Over the past month or more, Eamon had made it perfectly clear that his presence in the capital, in the palace, was more a burden than a blessing, and with every word he spoke here and now, that was being driven home even to his supporters in the Bannorn. Not that the smile had anything to do with Eamon's sterling performance here and now. No, Alistair was silently rehearsing what he was going to say to Fabs when the Landsmeet adjourned for the midday meal. It couldn't be far away now, and afterward he would be able to present her to the Bannorn as their future queen. Would she smile and blush? Would she let him kiss her at long last? He couldn't help hoping she would. It was worth smiling about.

And, of course, it meant his mind was engaged with far more pleasant daydreams as the men and women of the Bannorn shouted each other down with varying degrees of passion.

"Lords and ladies of the Landsmeet, I maintain that a marriage of alliance with Orlais is still our best chance of retaining our sovereign borders," Eamon was proclaiming, only to be drowned out by pretty much all of the lords and ladies he was addressing.

"It would appear the arl has forgotten his own living history," the querelous voice of Bann Tolveyn broke through the angered murmur as it died away. " _I_ have not forgotten those days when Ferelden labored under the yolk of the Orlesian occupation, nor the blood that was spilt in reclaiming it. And now he proposes we hand our hard-won freedom back to Orlais within a generation!"

"A better choice would be a marriage of alliance with Antiva," Bann Alfstanna spoke up. "Through that marriage, future kings and queens will have a blood tie with every royal house in southern Thedas."

"Or a marriage with the lady from Nevarra," another voice spoke up - Bann Ceorlic, surprisingly. "She is a member of the Pentaghast clan, as numerous as they are - that is more than enough support should Orlais attempt to crush us again!"

"Orlais - my lords and ladies, quiet!" Eamon's bellow silenced the dissenting voices briefly; just long enough for him to say his next set piece. "Orlais is recovering from its own internal strife. The new Emperor may yet choose to quell that incivility with a war upon us - a marriage to his cousin would offer a layer of protection we do not currently have!"

"And sell us into the grasp of Orlesian politicking for a hundred years!" Alfstanna barked back at him.

"If we are looking for a less controversial choice of queen, perhaps we should be looking to the Free Marches," Bann Teagan inserted with diplomatic grace. "Kirkwall, perhaps, or Starkhaven. Those ladies also remain with us."

"Unfortunately, Bann Teagan, there is bad blood between Kirkwall and Starkhaven at present," Fergus reminded him, careful not to allow even a flicker to touch his expression at the subject matter. "Given the actions of Prince Sebastian Vael, it is unlikely that alliance with Kirkwall or Starkhaven would result in any kind of stability in the region."

"Antiva is our best hope," Arl Bryland said firmly. "True, they have no military might to speak of, but their diplomatic ties encompass the entire world. We could do worse than become a close part of those ties."

"Teryna Mac Tir," Teagan said suddenly, turning to where Anora was standing quietly, her blue eyes watching the proceedings with vague amusement. "Of everyone here, you have the closest knowledge of the international politics at work. Though the decision belongs to the king, I would ask that you give us _your_ opinion, your ladyship."

Alistair blinked out of his daydream, his gaze flickering to Eamon. The older Guerrin was glowering at his brother, fury sparking in his eyes. Had he _really_ thought that Teagan would allow him to bully the entire country into bending the knee to Orlais for the second time in a century?

There was a subtle change in the murmuring quiet that fell over the Landsmeet as Anora nodded to Teagan. It had been many years since she had spoken at such a gathering and, for a moment, Alistair was reminded of her last address to them, when she had resigned her place on the privy council. That place was reinstated now - and should never have been resigned in the first place, admittedly - but this was her first address to the Landsmeet in a decade. He was rather curious as to what she might say.

"My lords and ladies, Ferelden stands or falls on the whim of our more powerful neighbors," Anora declared, holding her hands up to still any immediate response. "Even the influence of our friends in the Inquisition cannot make any overt move without the repercussions being felt here, in our heartland. I do not agree with Arl Eamon that Orlais would respect a marriage of alliance as being merely that; Gaspard is known to have imperialist leanings, and he sees us as a weak target. To accept an Orlesian Queen would be to invite the chevaliers back to torment us in our own homes once more."

"That is outrageous -" Eamon began, but the look Anora cut him across the room seemed to remind the old man that he was not in a private council chamber now. Being disrespectful to a Teryna, to the daughter of a true hero of Ferelden however his story had ended, was political suicide, and he was already walking a very thin line there.

"I agree with Bann Alfstanna, and with Bann Ceorlic," Anora went on. "I believe our greatest strength in allying through marriage will come through Nevarra or Antiva. I also believe that the king is to choose not only a queen, but a wife, and his decision must therefore also be predicated on personal opinions that we may not ask him for."

"Truth," Gallagher Wulf agreed in a rumble that reverberated around the hall. "It is the king's choice, and his alone. All this talk means nothing, if that choice is already made."

All eyes turned to Alistair - mostly curious, some concerned. One pair, in particular, were still scowling. Eamon had made a fool of himself in courting Orlais to begin with, but to try and force the issue on the Landsmeet had been simply stupid. He had, at last, done the unpleasant side of things publicly. Despite the lingering vestiges of loyalty to the arl, Alistair knew now that he could not allow the man to continue to ply his influence at court. The time had come to send him to his own home, wherever he chose to make it, and forge ahead with better advisors at his shoulder. But that was an issue for tomorrow - today demanded other matters that lodged slightly closer to home.

He straightened up, clasping his hands behind his back. That had been Anora's suggestion - as endearing as his flailing during conversation was, she'd told him, a king needed to look as though he wasn't grasping for the end of his sentence. She was right, too; there was a measure of respect in the faces of some of his banns on seeing his stance that he had not seen from them before now.

"My lords and ladies of the Landsmeet," he said aloud, his voice carrying easily to the far reaches of the hall thanks to years of practice at this. "Arls and banns, Teryn and Teryna ... you'll remember that, as Harvestmere came to a close, I agreed to your proposal to find a wife and queen with whom to perpetuate the line of Calenhad. I agreed then that if I did not choose a bride, I would abide by the decision this body would make on my behalf. That proposal resulted in this past month, in which several of the ladies invited have already removed themselves from any thought of consideration."

A low murmur rippled through the nobles watching him. Maria of Rivain, never even considered a viable option and now an adopted member of the king's own household; Marguerite of Orlais, departing in high dudgeon the day after arriving over gossip overheard from servants; Rosamunde of Gwaren, disgraced by dint of her own behavior only discovered through a minor disaster easily set right once again; Amandine of Tantervale, removing herself back to her home only a few days ago, after a serious of obvious mistakes in her courting of the king. To their minds, that left six for him to choose from, unaware of the inner machinations that allowed him to choose in good conscience from only two of their number.

"My lords and ladies, I _have_ come to a decision," Alistair informed them. "I have made my choice. However -" He held up a hand to still the beginnings of a relieved surge of sound. "I have no intention of announcing the lady's name to you until I have spoken with her myself. There is every possibility she may actually say _no_ , you know."

A loud snort of laughter erupted from what he was fairly sure was Shianni Tabris, but she composed herself so quickly he didn't have an opportunity to make sure it had been her. Still, it made a few people smile, that was something to be pleased with.

"Your majesty, might I make a suggestion?"

This came from Fergus, drawing eyes toward the Teryn of Highever. Alistair smothered the desire to grin. Not even Eamon knew about how carefully staged this particular exchange was; another of Anora's suggestions, and one which he and Fergus had readily agreed to, allowing themselves to be coached by the far more politically accomplished woman in their midst in order to gently lead the assembly of nobles by the nose and give the king the opportunity to set his personal entreaty in order without a certain name running from mouth to mouth ahead of him.

"Certainly, Lord Cousland."

Fergus nodded to him. "As it would appear that noon is approaching, and the Landsmeet shall have to adjourn for the midday meal," he said, somehow managing not to sound scripted, "might I suggest that we adjourn a little earlier than intended? Your majesty may then speak with the lady in question, and should that proposal have a happy conclusion, might we then have the honor of seeing you present our future queen at the opening of the afternoon session?"

Another ripple of sound from the gathered arls and banns, to the tune of understanding agreement with the proposed scheme. Only Eamon looked decidedly put out not to have advance knowledge of just who he and his wife would be expected to bend the knee to in the months and years to come. For most of those assembled, the mere fact that the king had finally agreed to both marry _and_ attempt to extend his line was more than enough to allow him a little breathing room now it came to the moment of proposal. The fact that he had actually made the decision on who to marry _himself_ was a blessing; as much as the Bannorn may seem to bully their king, none of them truly wanted to be personally responsible for making him miserable with the wrong choice of bride.

"If that is agreeable to the Bannorn ..." Alistair began, drowned out by a rising tide of agreement from the men and women gathered below him. He laughed, relieved by their amenable attitude. "Very well, then. This session is adjourned - we will gather again at two hours past noon."

With a nod to the assembly, he stepped away, moving to pass through the doors and out of their prying curiosity's sight. Maybe if he moved quickly enough, he could get to wherever Fabs was before Eamon caught up and demanded to know who he was planning on proposing to.

"Longshanks."

He pulled up just at the moment his stride began to lengthen, doing a beautiful little jig of a side-step to halt his motion and turn toward Demelza. It looked as though she had been waiting outside the doors for him, though he had no idea why. She should have been in the Landsmeet herself, being an arlessa and all, but Dem rarely did what was expected of her.

"Dem!" he declared, his smile broad as she approached him. "It went so well! I have just over two hours to -"

"Shut your mouth and listen," she interrupted sharply. "You have about half an hour before the princess is out of the city."

His mouth fell open, shocked twice over - once at being told to shut up quite so bluntly, and again at the unexpected news that Fabs wasn't in the palace. Dem rolled her eyes at him, grasping his elbow.

"Walk and listen, then," she conceded, setting a swift pace toward the main doors of the palace, through the milling throng of nobles and their wives and husbands. "The princess has heard some bad gossip and thinks you're going to ask Ciara. She left the palace about ten minutes ago."

"But ... she said she liked me," he protested, his mind whirling. So much for dreamy fantasies of proposals and romance, it seemed. How was he supposed to propose to a woman who wasn't even here?

"She _does_ like you, she just thinks you're going to ask someone else," Dem said clearly, still pulling him along.

"Wait, wait ..."

Alistair pulled his arm out of his friend's grip, heedless of the fact that they were surrounded by the nobles of the land, all desperate to know just what was going on here. He faced Demelza, absorbing what she had said. Fabs _did_ like him, he was sure of it. But she was sensitive to the political mood, and there had been a few rumors recently that pinned his future to Ciara. The princess had said more than twenty days ago that she would dance happily at his wedding to anyone else, but that had been when they had only been passing acquaintances, before he'd been able to take a true reading on her personality, before they had found whatever this connection he felt between them was. In her place, would _he_ be happy to dance at her wedding to another man?

His gaze sharpened as he caught up with himself, meeting Dem's eyes with sudden determination.

"There's a horse saddled, isn't there?" he said, more statement than question.

She nodded sharply. "And I sent Monster to slow her down."

"Good. Don't let Eamon crown anyone else while I'm gone."

Ignoring the mixture of shock and amusement on the faces around him, Alistair turned on his heel and broke into a run, elbowing through the crowded antechamber to plunge out into the bright spring sunshine. There was the horse, saddled and waiting; there was little Maria, tears staining her pretty face as she hugged Callista's hips, watching him vault into the saddle; and there were the gates, already being opened for him. He wheeled the horse, his heart in his throat.

He _had_ to catch her, or this last month would have been for nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go! Squeeee!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicita gets her happy ending.

"Princess!"

Fabs closed her eyes, wishing she could shut her ears against the sound of Maria's heartbroken wail. Rocking with the motion of the coach, she clenched her hands in the folds of her skirt, swallowing hard against the lump rising in her throat as the little girl's voice died away, overwhelmed by the sounds of the city that pressed in on all sides.

_I'm running away._

But what from? There had been so much hope in her heart just a few days ago - hope kindled by the acceptance of her own affection for the king; hope fueled by Alistair's warmth and kindness, encouraged by the way he had gone out of his way to be sure she was not ailing too badly when she had left his birthday celebration. But a good deal could happen in just a few days. The outing away from the city, camping under the stars in the chill of the wilds - she had been so out of her depth, subject to experiences she had no reference for. She had tried so hard to accept them with grace, to do as she was asked to do without complaint, but she knew she had failed in that. She'd had nothing to offer to the merriment around the fire, a part of her closing itself off from the sight of Alistair bonding with Ciara over their shared culture. She knew Ciara had no wish to marry the king. Some part of her even hoped that, if the decision belonged entirely to him, Alistair would choose herself to be his bride. But the decision was _not_ entirely his. It belonged as much to the Bannorn meeting in the Landsmeet today. Politics would rule his choice as much as his own preference, she was certain. Politics steered by the guiding hand of Arl Eamon, no doubt - a man whose wife had made it abundantly clear that Ferelden would not stomach a foreigner as queen.

_Why_ had she listened to that hateful woman's declarations at dinner yesterday? Felicita couldn't have said for certain, nor even why she had taken them so much to heart. She only knew that Arl Eamon was close to the throne, deep in the king's confidences; that Isolde's comments must be informed by her own husband's certainties. Yet it had stung so deeply to hear Isolde dismiss even Delphine from the running in loud conversation with one of her sycophants; to listen as they praised Ciara to the skies with false joy and shared a cup to the girl's health.

Felicita's heart ached as much for her young friend as for herself. She could not imagine being forced into an unwanted marriage, no matter how agreeable the husband might be. How much worse would it be, to be forced into marriage with a man you knew held the heart of a dear friend? _That_ was why she was leaving, protecting her own heart as well as Ciara's and Alistair's. She had told him she would dance happily at his wedding to the woman of his choice, yet it seemed unlikely that the choice would be his at all. She would _not_ dance happily at _any_ wedding where either side was not wholly committed, wholly pleased with the vows taken. She could not dance for the enjoyment of the court, celebrating the marriage of the man she loved to a girl who knew it. No, it was better this way. To step away, to lessen the guilt felt by all concerned. To run home to her mother and try to forget that she had once touched love with her fingertips, only to lose it to a politician's scheming. To forget that she had not even said goodbye to her heart.

The thickness in her throat rose again, wetness stinging behind her closed eyelids. Blinking tears away, she swallowed once more, drawing in a sharp breath to calm her urge toward such an overt display of sadness. Her gaze turned, instead, to the city as it went by; to the people gathered in the streets, waiting with such hope for the announcement of their king's engagement to one of his ladies. There was no suggestion that the announcement would not be made, simply a matter of guessing _who_ it might be. A market day as well, many people had come in from the surrounding farms and villages, just to be able to say they were _there_ when King Alistair presented the woman who would be queen to the people.

Unbidden, Callista's fervent words at the doors to the palace came back to her mind. _He loves **you** , he will choose **you**. Are you really going to break his heart for the sake of idle gossip?_ Felicita shook her head, trying to banish the words from her mind. She couldn't dwell on them; she mustn't. For all his kindness to her, his concern for her, there had been no defining moment with the king that had showed her his heart. How could others possibly know where he had laid his love, if the one they believed held it knew nothing at all? No, they must be wrong. Wishful thinking, hoping that the Bannorn would not force a marriage of convenience on a man they had all come to like for his own self in the past month. Whatever happened, he would not be alone. He would have Maria to brighten his days.

_But you'll be alone._

She pressed one hand to her mouth, trying to force the urge to tears away for good. The last thing she wanted was to show wet eyes and sadness to the merry people straining to catch a glimpse of the person in the coach as it trundled by them. She'd always been alone in her own way; she could live with it. She _knew_ she could. Far better that _she_ should be so isolated than Alistair should return to that sense of isolation. Yes, far better.

The rocking of the coach slowed to halt, dragging her out of her melancholy thoughts as curiosity elbowed its way through her whirling conflict of emotions to take center-stage. There seemed to be no reason for a halt - as she waited, a cart that had clearly been in line behind the coach pulled past and continued on its way, followed by others. She leaned out of the window, calling to the driver.

"What is the delay?"

The man sighed, looking down at her from under his hat brim. "There's a mabari in the road, your highness," he told her, the reins held loosely in his hands. "Doesn't seem to want to let the horses pass."

Felicita frowned in confusion. Was this some Fereldan custom she was unaware of? She knew they honored their dogs above almost all else, but surely a dog could be moved on with relative ease.

"These others are passing," she pointed out, gesturing as a cart laden with giggling children rocked past them.

"Aye, highness, they are," the driver agreed. "Seems it's only us the mabari wants to stand still."

Suspicion flared in her mind. She knew Alistair had kennels brimming with mabari, well-trained mabari, but would Callista _really_ have the authority to send one after her?

"Will it not move out of the way if we keep going?" she asked.

The driver raised a brow. "Highness, I'm not risking a panic in my team if it doesn't," he informed her. "If you're in such a hurry to get gone, I suggest you walk."

Already not in the best of moods, Felicita's temper flared at that. She was just about to push open the door and demand he say that again when she caught sight of a little elf boy staring at her from beside a market stall. His mouth was open, big eyes fixed on the Antivan princess with shining black hair who had stopped right where he could look at her, whose coat of arms painted on the side of her coach announced her identity to anyone who paid attention to such things. And Felicita felt ashamed of her temper, swallowing it down to offer the child a warm smile. If waiting for this mabari to move on required nothing more than patience, then patience was what she could give it. There was no need to startle the people milling around the coach with a ridiculous temper tantrum that would only solidify their quiet prejudices about the royal and noble classes.

Yet the longer the coach was still, the bolder the people around it got. They moved closer, peering directly in through the windows. She knew they were more curious than hostile, but Felicita had never been so closely surrounded by so many strangers before. She had lived her life in the safe bubble of royalty, where those who came close had already been vetted by those who protected her. There was no protection here. She had left without even arranging an escort, like the idiot that she was, more caught up in her own misery than in the practicalities of traveling. Now she could feel the first rumblings of quiet panic in her breast as the crowd pressed in around the coach. An arm thrust in through the window beside her - she jumped, only just managing to swallow her scream.

"Your highness, a drink for you," said the owner of the arm, and she realized that the man was offering her a half-filled cup of mead. "No knowing how long you'll be kept here."

"O-oh ... thank you." Shaken, she took the cup with a grateful smile - or as near to a smile as she could manage - sipping the contents under the man's proud gaze. "It is very fine, goodman, thank you for thinking of me."

"It isn't every day a man can say a princess took a drink from his hand," he said amiably.

And now she could see what else was going on. This man was keeping the pressing crowd back from the door nearest to her in the coach, his bulk persuading the more forceful of the crowd on that side from daring to push any closer. Her curiosity piqued, she glanced to the other door, and was surprised to note that a pair of men in farmers' smocks appeared to have appointed themselves guards to hold back the crowd on that side as well. _Not so unprotected as you first thought,_ she mused to herself, feeling the panic receding, remembering that these were Alistair's people. A population who loved their king as much for his flaws as for his good points, who mirrored him in the best possible way. There was no need to feel afraid when surrounded by them so closely.

"Meaning no disrespect at all, highness," the man said carefully, drawing her attention back to him, "but we're powerful curious about why the Warden-Commander's mabari might be holding up your coach and only yours."

"The Warden-Commander's mabari?" Felicita sat up, surprise and suspicion combining in her expression. "You mean Monster?"

There was a bark from ahead of the coach, as if in answer, and the whole vehicle slid back a couple of paces as the horses shied. She heard the driver swear above her, but before anyone could say another word, a louder ripple of excitement ran through the crowd. Heads were turned back the way she had come, and she, too, tilted her head that way.

_"Fabs!"_

Her heart lurched. Only one person called her that ... and he was here? What was he _doing_ here? He was supposed to be in the Landsmeet for another hour! She was supposed to be far out of reach by the time the gathering adjourned for the midday meal, to remove herself from any painful goodbyes, to save him from having to look her in the eye and tell her he was marrying someone else. This was dreadful, absolutely mortifying, and that it should happen where so many curious eyes would see ...

"Fabs, wait!"

The voice was clearer now, closer, accompanied by the sound of hoofbeats against cobbles that clattered to a halt as the milling crowd around the carriage shifted to make way for their king. Felicita could feel her heart racing, making her best effort to remain composed ... but she could not prevent herself from moving to the other side of the coach and leaning out through the window to see what, exactly, was going on.

The crowd of people were pulling back to clear the way as the king drew his horse closer, torn between gawping happily at the ruler of their land and dragging their children out of the way so he didn't accidentally ride any of them down in his eagerness to reach the coach. As Felicita watched, Alistair caught sight of her leaning out. His worried face relaxed into a bright smile, relief radiating from him that he had caught her. The horse seemed to come to a natural halt without the need for his rider's intervention, and Alistair swung down onto the cobbles, handing the reins to the nearest man with absent friendliness.

"Hold this for me, would you, old chap?"

Despite her awkward sense of uncertainty, Felicita could not help but smile as the man stammered out a _thank you_ to his king, setting his shoulders to keep everyone else away from the beautiful horse as Alistair strode toward the coach itself. Tall as he was, she found her face on a level with his when he reached the window from which she looked out, his hand finding a rest on the coach door.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, shaking her head in quiet astonishment that he would abandon his nobles just to chase after her. "You are supposed to be in the palace."

"So are you," he told her, his flushed face lit up with an excitement that seemed to crackle through every inch of him. "I have something to ask you."

Those who were close enough to hear this spoken erupted into a tidal wave of whispers and mutterings that swept backward across the milling throng gathered about the coach with as much excitement and delight as Felicita could feel in her heart. Alistair glanced over his shoulder at the gathering around him, as though seeing them for the first time, and a faint blush crept over his flushed cheeks as an abashed smile flickered over the handsome face that held her so arrested in his gaze.

"Ah ... can I come in?" he asked, patting the door of the coach to make his intentions clear.

"Oh! Oh, yes." Felicita felt a blush of her own beginning as her distraction was marked by the watchers. "Please, do."

His smile deepened, brightening the face she had seen so often in hopeful dreams and daydreams over the past days. Without further ado, he opened the coach door, letting her draw back a little to make room, lifted his foot ... and missed the step entirely, plunging headfirst into her lap. Ignoring the gasp that went up from the crowd, Felicita felt him cackle with laughter at his own ineptitude, her own voice rising in laughter at the sight of the King of Ferelden crawling into the coach on his hands and knees to pull the door closed behind him.

And there he stayed, on his knees in the now entirely too small space of the coach's interior, flushed and smiling at her fading giggles. His hands braced on the seat at either side of her thighs, all his attention turned to her, and _oh_ , but Felicita felt her worries burning away under the warm regard of the man she loved. She couldn't speak, couldn't think of a word to say, either in defense of her leaving nor in justification of her allowing the coach to linger.

"Fabs," Alistair said softly, and she felt her breath catch in her throat. Only he called her that; a name he had given her at their first meeting that now meant so much more than a fumbled attempt at her full name that it had been then. "Why did you run away?"

She couldn't bear to meet his eyes at that question, glancing away only to color in embarrassment at catching the curious gaze of the goodman who had offered her a drink, still standing close by the side of the coach. If she looked the other way, she was certain to meet other curious eyes. It seemed she had no choice but to face him, and confess her foolishness in all honesty.

"Alistair, I ..." She hesitated, glancing down at her hands folded on her lap.

"Fabs."

His own hand rose, fingers rough with weapon use but gentle as he lifted her chin, encouraging her to meet his own eyes once more. There was such warmth there in the sparkle of tawny brown eyes, all softness and hope, and something else she dared not put a name to. She could not lie to him; she _would_ not, and yet ... she could not bring herself to speak at all.

"Silly girl, gossip is just gossip," he said gently, and her breath caught in her throat, struggling against a sudden urge to cry. How did he know that she had taken to her heels because of such idle words? "And in this case, it was _bad_ gossip."

"How could I know that?" she burst out softly. "How can I know such a thing? Politics - it was never something I was trained to, beyond the need for survival in Antiva. You must choose a queen who is suitable for your people -"

"I must choose a wife who quickens my heart," he interrupted, shaking his head at her outburst. "And no matter what you have heard, that wife will not be Ciara."

Hope blossomed like a fiery sunburst in her chest, so strong as to ache even in what might be happiness. If he was not to marry Ciara, then ... There was no other lady he _could_ choose, she knew. Callista, Ceri, Leona - they had all stated a preference _not_ to marry him; he _could_ not marry Delphine and keep his own self-respect, much less the respect of his people. Did she dare to hope?

"It-it will not?" she ventured, her voice very small in the crowded stillness the coach held about them.

Alistair's warmth seemed to blossom at her sweet uncertainty, his fingers leaving her chin to draw a tender caress against her cheek.

"This month was never about finding a queen, not for me," he told her, still speaking in that soft, gentle manner, as though she were a skittish pup about to bolt from him once again. "I hoped I would find a _wife_ , a woman to be more than a figurehead for the people. A woman to share my life with."

He sighed, taking both her hands into his own. He must have been able to feel her trembling, squeezing her fingers within his grasp as he held her gaze with solemn certainty.

"I should have told you when I was sure of it," he said, laying the blame at his own feet. "If you will have me, idiot that I am at times ... I love you, Felicita Amalia Braulia Salome Campana of Antiva. And I would be the happiest man in all of Thedas, if you would _choose_ to be my wife."

Felicita felt her mouth open, her jaw working soundlessly as she stared into his eyes. Of all the daydreams to come true unexpectedly, she would never have imagined that it might be the most far-fetched of them all - that he would make such a heartfelt proposal to her without any assumption that she would say yes at all. Yet there he was, kneeling before her, his heart in her hands, his gaze soft with hope and fear combined ... and still, she struggled to speak through the eager roar of her own hopes and dreams fulfilled.

"I-I ..."

She saw his expression tighten, the fear of rejection clouding his eyes, and suddenly all her uncertainties were gone, brushed aside in the wild rush to wipe that sad loneliness from his life.

_"Sí,"_ she blurted out, pulling her hands from his grasp to cradle his jaw. There were tears again, but this time, she felt no need to suppress them, no longer wallowing in self-pity but in sheer delight, all that unnecessary tension released in soft laughter and wet eyes. "Yes, I will marry you. _Te amo, mi amor."_

"You-you do?"

The flash of amazed disbelief on his face made her laugh that much harder, leaning close to brush a very soft kiss to his silently mouthing lips. She felt his hands squeeze her thighs where they had landed, gentle but firm, a clear answer to her affection even if he hadn't quite managed to return her kiss.

"You love me, Fabs?" he whispered, eyes searching hers for any sign that she might not be so certain as she seemed, any sign that he had misunderstood the words she had given him in her native tongue.

She nodded, stroking her fingers through his hair, heedless of the gawking onlookers straining to see what was happening inside the coach. And she watched the comprehension dawn on her beloved's handsome face, as beautiful as the sunrise over Antiva City on Summerday; as his worried gaze became joyful, the flush on his cheeks receded around the beaming brightness of a smile that encompassed his whole face, lighting up his eyes. His hand rose to cup her cheek, his thumb tracing the fullness of her cheek drawn taut in a bright smile of her own, fingers rising into the soft waves of her hair caught back in a silvered net.

"I love you," he repeated to her, shifting closer on one knee, drawing his other hand to her waist, to her back, as his breath teased her lips for the third time since they had met. And this time, there would be no interruptions. "May I ... may I kiss yo- _mmm_ ..."

His question, so carefully, so longingly put, was unnecessary. Felicita closed that distance between them, pressing her smiling lips to his, easing her arms about his neck as his wound their way about her waist, finally claiming the kiss that had almost been hers twice before. She felt Alistair laugh just for a moment, tasted his breath as he teased her lips apart to taste her in turn, laughter fading into tender warmth that surged from her heart to every part of her body. _He loves me._ She drew back, but Alistair followed her, hungry to taste her lips again, to share his smile with hers as they reveled together in the certain knowledge that this was their right. This was theirs to share, now and until the end of days.

A bark interrupted them, because of _course_ there had to be an interruption. Alistair snorted with laughter as he broke that kiss, though he did not loosen his grasp about her waist, turning his head to find Monster's kaddis-painted muzzle peeking in through the window, paws dancing on that side of the coach. Felicita followed his gaze, blushing even as she giggled at the apparent delight of the mabari that had been sent to keep her from escaping.

"You did good, Monster," Alistair praised the hound, reaching out to scratch the big dog's head as Monster barked again. He looked back at Felicita, love and hope warring in his gaze as her smile rose once more.

"Come back with me?" he asked softly.

Felicita drew in a slow breath, her eyes tracking from Alistair, to his best friend's mabari, to the people outside the coach desperate to know what was happening inside. It had been such a strange month - a contest she had never intended to be a part of, friendships she had never expected to make, a love she had never dreamed might be hers. A new life, with the man who held her heart in his hands. She turned her gaze back to Alistair, gently brushing a last kiss to the upturned corner of his mouth.

"Yes," she whispered, her heart singing with joy. "Take me home, _mi amor."_

 

 

_**The End.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s over! But not the end, I promise. A sequel is planned, and a possible one-shot set between now and then. I'm always around on my tumblr - [shannaraisles](https://shannaraisles.tumblr.com/). Keep your eyes peeled, and thank you for reading!


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